Closer
by ohsoloverly
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Katniss Everdeen returns to her childhood home after years of living out of state, only to find that the town, and certain residents in it, are not quite how she remembers- especially a certain boy who she could have sworn once had blue eyes. (THG characters in Twilight-universe!) [I own neither Hunger Games, nor The Twilight Saga]
1. Chapter 1

The alarm on my clock pops on with fuzzy reception the local classic rock station. I groan, shifting to turn it off. I still linger in the warmth of my sheets, long enough for the clock's snooze button to have gone stale. The radio buzzes with yet another rain-filled forecast.

Just in time for my first day of high school.

Okay, so not my _first_ day of high school, in general, but my first day at the school here, specifically. My first day jumping back in, seeing kids I haven't seen since first grade. How wonderful. I doubt any of them will remember me, anyway. I'm not certain, yet, if that's a good or bad thing.

I attempt self-distraction by glancing towards my window.

I'm not good at making friends, never mind keeping them.

Light casts flickering shadows, from both fluttering branches and my propped-opened bedroom window. My mother's parting gift of a homemade dreamcatcher flutters in a breeze, tapping against the glass panes with a vengeance.

 _"To keep you safe,"_ she had said.

She had even gone as far as weaving a bird in the center. A mockingbird. She says they remind her of me. I can't understand why.

I guess it's the thought that counts.

Making dreamcatchers has become my mother's obsession, in recent years. Understandable, as we lived not too far from a reservation, back in Arizona. My little sister, Prim, had happily helped, bedazzling my going away present with glitter about an inch thick.

Lovely and lively as the beautiful Primroses she had been named for, I cannot deny that the move is probably coming at the optimal age for her. One of the few things my mother said, with which I actually agree. Prim will be entering the junior high school here, eleven just like every other sixth grader; they are all entering a new school, so it won't just be her who's nervous. She will not be the weird girl, or the girl left out- her personality has never led for her to be that girl. Still, I'm glad that the probability of her getting hurt has diminished. If the move makes Prim happy, that is everything to me. Nothing makes me happy more than seeing her blossom.

As for me? The move hasn't exactly gotten off to a great start, so far. My mother's brother, my Uncle Haymitch, has called me 'sweetheart' about as much as I can handle. The amount of bickering we have done, in just the past few days, makes us sound more like an old married couple than anything else.

My scowl, that becomes affixed anytime Haymitch tries to 'converse' with me, has only slid off with Prim there to mediate us. It generally keeps people off of my back, and it's sort of the only self-defence I've got.

I'm pretty short, and though I excelled in archery class back in our small town, I don't exactly walk about with a bow and arrow.

Part of me fleetingly wonders, if I could, how much better that would make me feel today. Added security. Added relief from curious students who want to berate the new girl. It would be pretty nice.

I don't deal well with change.

Obviously.

At least, I remind myself, I won't have the stigma of being the girl whose father died battling a wildfire, the way I had at my old school. The girl with the crazy mother. The girl who consistently turned down the the cafeteria ladies' offers of discounted lunch, for lack of money to pay even the discounted price. The girl who started trying to work at fourteen and could never afford to go out to the mall, never mind pay to be on sports teams. The girl who got clothing as the third owner in most cases.

I had lost count of the times Child Protective Service had been at our property in the past five years. It might not have been all that many, but the chaos which always followed after an 'inspection' of our home inevitably made the whole thing all the more traumatic. Most of it was bullshit, with people not knowing what they were talking about. But, when I had passed out on the side of the road a half-mile from home due to overheating and hunger, we're lucky my mother pulled herself together long enough to lie off her ass.

After that, I was the girl who everyone thought had an eating disorder.

Perhaps the move wasn't such a bad idea after all.

I shower, afterwards rubbing moisturizer across my olive skin. I comb the knots out of my thick, dark brown hair, before braiding it, still damp, to the side. I take a good look at myself in the vanity mirror in my room, reassessing what I am wearing. Hiking boots, loose-fitting trousers, and a plain t-shirt.

No, that's how I _used_ to dress. I groan, looking at the boxes in which most of my other clothes still linger. I sigh, hesitating a moment, before opening them up. A simple, grey blouse, and some crisp, black jeans.

Secondhand doesn't always mean dirty, not if you clean them well, at least.

It's rather nice, knowing I'll look all right for the day.

Our closest neighbor, old Sae always let me pretend that I was being sneaky, lifting some of her friends' donations intended for Big Brothers and Big Sisters. She'd leave the whole pile out on her front patio, and if she noticed me rifling through them, she certainly never said anything.

I always did notice, though, that there were at least three or four items in exactly my or Prim's size.

Without help from Sae and her live-in 'friend' Cray, and the occasional donated check from my Uncle Haymitch (never mind, my own sheer dumb luck), I'm not certain that we would have made it.

Scratch that, I _know_ we wouldn't have made it.

I tried to give some money to Sae and Cray, before we left. They wouldn't have it.

A twist lingers in my stomach, where me owing them sits, leaving me irked.

My mother had been busy staring at walls.

My father died, fighting a brush-fire. He was a volunteer firefighter, and the compensation our family received from the department had been limited, at best. We had almost nothing left, not after the donations from charity groups stopped within a few months. He had worked two jobs for years, but bills and insurance payments bled us dry.

And my mother just… disappeared. She was there, physically, but her mind? Nothing could call it back to the present.

Prim had been six years old. I was twelve. I had to become a mother, for both of us.

I became a mother to my mother, in a sense. I suppose we have made up, in a way, but I will never trust her abilities where dependency are concerned. I'm glad, in regards to that, that we won't be around her and Phil except on the holidays.

When mother did finally get herself together, it wasn't exactly at any kind of a lucrative career. She moved us to a 'dry' yirt, not too far from our former trailer. 'Dry' was ironic: there had been no indoor toilets, or even running water, no electricity; yet the water in the rainy seasons nearly killed all three of us. My mother tried to have us live off of selling herbal remedies to the rare passerby. It took all of my powers of persuasion (i.e.: my sheer force of will) to get her to move back into the trailer we had shared with my father.

At least the trailer was somewhat secure. And, the summer fairs in town _had_ gotten her some profit.

If it weren't for Phil, my mother's new husband (and the reason for us having to find alternative accommodations), I'd still be scrambling, honestly. He seems far more stable, and seems to stabilize my mother enough, too; but by mother would still be living in a either a dry yirt or a dry trailer, with a garden hose for water, and limited electricity. She'd still be trying to live off selling birch bark and lavender cure-alls.

I'm convinced that damned yirt is the reason Prim developed bronchial asthma three years ago. The cloth ceiling was hardly weatherproofed. I'm lucky to still have my father's leather boots and jacket, as they nearly got soaked to death. By some trick of fortune, we still have my father's portrait, too. Most of the photographs and letters were ruined. My father's soft smile looks out from a cracked and dented frame, now next to my sister's bed, alongside a cactus plant upon which she has placed with googly eyes.

You don't typically think of monsoons hitting the Arizona desert, but let me tell you, they do. It's not pretty, when you're not in a proper house.

I shift, scratching at my sniffling nose. The change in environment is a bit of a shock, to say the least.

The leaves outside are fiery with autumn, though the overcast skies cast the natural brightness against a more morbid background. A few splats splotch against the sides of the house and I roll myself off the bed, shutting the window before an onslaught of rain can make it way clear in my room.

Forks, Washington: where you can feel about ready to throw yourself off the nearest cliff every day; but, at least, you can be depressed in safety. Thanks to my booze-loving uncle, Sheriff Abernathy.

He must be doing something right. We have one of the lowest crime rates in the state.

We can be bored to death, slowly, but safely.

And, hey, we've got a Walmart up the road, so we really shouldn't complain.

If you can handle the buckets of rain pouring hourly, the landscapes are beautiful, outside of town. For some reason, I did not for the life of me remember the long, winding roads being quite so treacherous. Nor, did I remember the roads having such picturesque outlooks. Even my typically grumpy hide has to admit, it can be lovely here.

It's funny, because my memories of this town are a lot rosier than my current view. That's just the benefit of having been a child, I suppose. You don't understand the severity of anyone else's emotions. If you're happy, everyone must be.

A memory pops into my head, of a little boy, not much older than my five-year-old self, with blonde curls and big, blue eyes-

I shake my head, before grabbing some loose powder Prim had bought me for my birthday last year.

Moving out of Forks in favor of the Southwest, back then, had been for the purpose of an adventure, not for lack of profitable occupations. It wasn't until I started school and got held back a year that I began to grumble about dealing with other children. It wasn't exactly 'cool' to be eight and in first grade. Just as it won't be so 'cool' when I am nineteen, only just graduating high school.

I loathe the day.

I'm sure I'll feel dumb being seventeen and being in a class of sixteens. Haymitch made a crack about it, yesterday. Yesterday, coincidentally, was my seventeenth birthday. Prim had tried to convince me to say something, I resisted and told her to keep quiet about it. Haymitch seems to have forgotten the meaning of the date, and I didn't exactly need him to make me more self-conscious about the whole thing. Who knows, perhaps the request to transfer credits and make me a junior, rather than sophomore, would be approved. I pick my schedule off of the sparse furniture, which Haymitch said he had been using infrequently for an office.

Nope, no such luck, I'll be an old lady in a sea of unknown classmates.

I wish I could say I don't care, but I do.

It'll be embarrassing, if my childhood friends recognize me, to say, _'Hi, remember me? Yeah, I'm a year behind all of you.'_ Not that i plan to say anything _at all,_ unless they all know me. I'm hoping they won't, but I'm not stupid. I'm sure all of the kids will be the same. After all, Forks is a small town, and people rarely if ever leave. Me, Prim, and my parents, are the exception.

My mother had left, once, to go to school for nursing, but she became pregnant with me, the summer before her third semester and had to drop out. Even Haymitch has rarely gone farther than Seattle. Well, no, he had gotten down to visit us in Desert-R-Us, but, that was an extenuating circumstance. The only time Haymitch left the state had been for my father's funeral.

Forks is basically a gooey fly-trap. Or, Hotel California.

I really hope my former friends don't recognize me. What would we have to talk about? I have a feeling twenty questions about my history will hardly garner many promising friendships.

School has never been the easiest thing, where social interactions are concerned. Academia is one thing, but _people_. Let's just say, it's a good thing we didn't need to get by after dad's death based on my charm and charisma.

In fact, I was lucky my father had been a good pickpocket. He's the one who taught me the best way to sneak out loaves of bread and heads of lettuce from the supermarket. We were always short, or owing bills or different payments. My mother never liked to go when we were going to be lifting. It was just me and my father. I think it made my mother feel low, and Prim was too little, we couldn't trust that she wouldn't accidentally say something. So, it was always me and my father sneaking out what we couldn't afford.

I managed a jumbo pack of frozen chicken legs, once; although, I can't argue that there is a certain suspicion to those around being so oblivious to that one. I half-wonder, now as I think about it, if the employees didn't know I was stealing from them. I was a tiny twig of a thing. Surely, the meat packet stuck out underneath my coat, like a sore thumb? I guess I was a sad enough sight that they didn't even say anything.

It wasn't legal, but I've promised I'll make good on it, now that we're comfortable enough.

As I get dressed for the morning, I can't help smiling as I hear my little sister's muffled voice. I'm sure she is cheerfully engaging our uncle in conversation downstairs. She really can bring out the best in people, even an old drunkard who somehow has become the town of Forks' sheriff.

A drunk with a prickly exterior, who is somehow our legal guardian, for the foreseeable future.

He must not be all that tough, though. He's rough around the edges, but I caught him talking sweet to his pet bird in the downstairs living room. Out back, he has about six chickens, four goats, and an obnoxious pet cat who comes and goes as he pleases. The latter mongrel has taken to my sister like a fish to water. Buttercup, Prim named him. Haymitch had a few names for the ugly squashed-in-faced tom, but none of them were entirely… appropriate. I can't exactly blame him. Buttercup had greeted me, first thing, by wrapping his claws around my leg and biting into my knee.

I sniff the air, now, and my eyes widen.

Haymitch must have cooked breakfast this morning, or Prim had, because a distinctive scent is making my mouth water.

 _Bacon._

I can't help the near-moan that escapes my mouth. We haven't had bacon in ages. It's not that I haven't wanted to grab some- I'm a carnivore, to the core. But, when you're stealing to get by, you focus on the necessities. Priorities, like milk, bread, and meat, come first. Few luxuries are worth the risk.

Chicken was one thing- I, of all people, know after all these years how many different ways you can prepare, or reuse it. But, bacon? Sadly, that was a different case. God, I can hardly remember the taste. The last time we ate bacon, it probably had been with my father, at one of the (few) celebratory Denny's trips we made years ago.

The Everdeen-Abernathy clan has never exactly been comprised of millionaires.

When my father lost his job at the local lumber yard here, in Washington state, things got tight. Tighter, even, than before. The market had been bad. What jobs were around here that a man used to cutting trees could take on? Most places had been downsizing, not hiring. My mother threatened to leave him, for sunnier shores. Living here had been more than they could bear. They loved each other, but it wasn't enough.

I don't romanticize it, the way I had as a seven-year-old girl. Love wasn't enough.

I sometimes wonder, in my quiet solitude, if it wouldn't be better for them to not have met.

A marriage that started in a whirlwind of passion, slowly trickled down to a whimper. If it hadn't been for my father dying five years ago, I've often wondered if they wouldn't have simply let go of each other. Would they have divorced? Would they've just kept together for sake of us, for me and Prim; for sake of how they once had felt?

The only thing I know for sure, is I'm never getting married. Or, having kids, for that matter.

It's not worth the pain.

The majority of marriages end in divorce, after all. I did a slideshow on it, last year.

I'm not sure what would have become of my mother, in the case of getting a divorce. Would she have tuned out, the way she did when my father died? 'Whimsical' had always been my father's word for her, but the kids at school always had different names.

They had different names for me, too.

 _'Cat-piss Never-clean'_ was one of them.

People suck.

I'm beginning to come downstairs when my Uncle Haymitch's stupid cat-guest, Buttercup, rears his ugly head to hiss at me. I aim a kick at his head, but he's too quick, thumping down the stairs and out the back cat-flap.

If we get to starving again, at least Haymitch's got some good eats around here. That'd show that damn cat.

"Katniss!" Prim greets me with an excited hug as I enter the kitchen.

"Mornin', sweetheart," Haymitch raises a glass, nodding in my direction.

His dirty-blonde hair is wet, suggesting he deigned to shower this morning. I suppose that is something. His blue eyes are damp, swimming in what I estimate to be about ten pounds of liquid courage. I'm pretty sure the coffee I smell is mixed with whiskey, in his mug. God help us if any serious crimes ever happen here. The sheriff will probably be too trashed.

"Nice of you to grace us with your presence."

I roll my eyes, turning my focus back to Prim. She's dressed in a brand new outfit. Brand new, to her, that is. It's a fine fit, considering it's from the donation pile. I haven't told her that, of course. The ruffled, sky blue quarter-sleeve blouse with a Peter Pan collar, and soft, dark-blue leggings, look brand new. I had washed them till my hands were raw, to be sure it'd be worthy of her. If she has to wear clothing second-hand, I want to be damned sure it's nothing junky.

"You look lovely!" I kiss the top of her head, as she keeps her arms around me.

"But _you_ look beautiful." Prim's lips purse. Her eyes shine as she looks up at me. "I wish I looked like you."

"Well, I wish I looked like _you,_ Little Duck," I reply, keeping my smile pasted on. Before settling to eat, I brush some stray strands of her loose hair behind her ear, fixing her navy blue headband. I check the back of her shirt, smiling as I recall her first day of kindergarten. She had a similar outfit, with a pleated skirt in place of jeggings. Her shirt kept untucking with each step she made, and I finally pinned her little 'tail' inside the skirt. "We're leaving our tail untucked today, duck?"

Prim giggles, nodding.

She favors my mother and uncle's side of the family, the Abernathy's. Lighter skin, wheat-blonde hair, and sunflower blue eyes. I favor my father, by contrast far darker, olive-toned skin, with his grey eyes. I used to think my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, but after everything… I'm not so sure. I'm grateful, at least, that Prim has that loving, compassionate glint to her. Primrose would give a stranger the coat off her back, if she saw they were chilled; cry, if I even considered killing a spider or ant inside the house, or out. Always trying to do the right thing. Always trying to save people.

She got the best of both our parents, really. She has my mother's depth of feeling, my father's kindness, and both of their wits. She is in advanced programs, in school. Luckily, the local middle school _here_ doesn't charge us an exorbitant amount, for that. I guess my mother had the same potential, once, to be compassionate and giving; to try to save the world. Her empathy drove her inwards, though, even before my father died. She couldn't function, overwhelmed with caring, until she fell numb to it all. She had given up her profession as a nurse, when we moved south.

"Duck, huh?" Haymitch snorts.

I glare at him.

"Quack," Prim plays along. She scoops up some eggy toast, chewing while keeping an unmistakable grin on her lips.

Haymitch gives what passes for a smile, saluting her.

"Quack yourself," I joke, earning another giggle before I dig into my food.

We're quiet for most of breakfast. I'm finishing off my water when a thought hits me, and I turn to my sister.

I've always taken Prim to school.

 _Always._ Come rain or shine.

"Don't forget, duck, I can't walk you, I've got a later start than you-"

"I've got her, sweetheart," Haymitch cuts me off. Leaning back to snatch a set of car keys off the counter, he dangles them, across at me. He raises a brow. "And for you."

I eye my uncle suspiciously. "What's that?"

"C'mon, honey, take my car."

"I've got dad's truck," I retort, trying to keep the anger stirring at bay.

"Katniss." my uncle rolls his eyes. "You drove hours in that piece of junk-"

"I got us here," my voice is raising, strained with frustration. _"Didn't_ I?"

"Yeah, an' how many pit stops'd you have to make?" he asks, anger overtaking his amused look. "Look, the Nissan's brand new-"

I set my jaw, before crossing my arms across my chest.

"Goddamn stubborn sonofa-" Haymitch slams the keys on the table, before shaking his head.

Prim jumps, and even I find it difficult to avoid reacting. A tense few minutes pass, with Haymitch staring at me. I give as good as I get, standing my ground.

"C'mon, kid," he addresses Prim, only sparing my a hardened glare. With an uncertain look in my direction, Prim scrambles out of the room, to gather her things for class. Haymitch lingers by the back door, eyeing me. "We're taking my cruiser."

"Great for you." I snort. "Really taking on the hardened criminals around h-"

"Enough of your sass, sweetheart," Haymitch spits, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He clears his throat. He looks about ready to say something, when Prim returns. The momentary pause in Haymitch's surly countenance passes. "All right, let's go."

I leave a half hour later, after making sure that the keys to Haymitch's Nissan stay precisely where he had set them.


	2. Welcoming

_I think of Prim. I hope her day is going as (surprisingly) well as my own._

 _(Or, the first part of Katniss Everdeen's first day at Forks High School.)_

* * *

"Kat?!" a girl's voice sounds out the exclamation in a high-pitched, excited tone.

Despite roughly ten years, and however-many miles, recognition _(and not the bad kind)_ jolts me with surprising warmth.

Sure enough, when I turn, I see a much taller, slimmed out, fashionably-clad Delilah 'Delly' Stanley. Her long, straight hair has been dyed, with an ombre effect. The locks are now light brown, fading into her natural, blonde coloring, at the ends. It is fashioned into a half-ponytail, with the rest of it loosely bouncing against her shoulders. Wide, blue-green eyes are lined just-so, giving them a good 'popping' effect. Her brows, nails, and makeup all are done to perfection. Though she has certainly grown from the chubby little girl she had been, her face itself has hardly changed. Slimmed out, a bit, like the rest of her, but still rounded, with cheeks that dimple only on the left side, as she smiles enthusiastically at me.

Maybe this won't be so bad, after all.

"It _is_ you!" she shrieks, immediately engulfing me in a lung-collapsing hug. I'm on the verge of gasping for breath by the time she she finally releases me. "Ohmygod, I'm sorry! Am I crazy-hug-girl or what, ohmygod?! Do you remember me? I don't know if you-?!"

"Delly!" I force enthusiasm, and for my small grin to grow wide enough for it to translate. I find myself giving a breathless laugh, uncharacteristically so.

"Yes! Ohmygod, you remember, I can't believe it!"

"Of course I do," I reply, my memory bringing a sincerity to my tone that surprises me. I reach out, touching her shoulder gently before quickly rescinding the touch. I've never been one for that sort of thing, but the instinct to reassure her has struck me against my will. "I thought you would've forgotten me, honestly."

"Never!" she squeaks. With anyone else, that would sound forced; only Delly is visibly thrilled. "I'm just glad you don't think I'm some random nutjob!"

Recollections drift to mind, of how she would always try to make everyone feel welcomed while playing house in the schoolyard. How we would create an entire sandcastle neighborhood and Delly would do all of the final touches with sticks and rocks, to make them look fancy.

 _(How we had always had that sweet, blue-eyed boy playing with us.)_

Delly has always been one of those kids who just loves everyone, automatically. Her parents own a popular restaurant in town, one they opened not long before Delly and I started kindergarten together. They had originally been from Chimacum, a small town not too far away, but I guess 'big-time' Forks had some form of an appeal which that other small-town lacked.

Delly's friendly nature reminds me of Prim; but, unlike Prim, Delly is hyper and jumpy. Sort of like a puppy with ADHD. She's practically jumping up and down, right now. I'm surprised at how little time seems to have changed her disposition. I'm certainly not the carefree kid I had been.

I can't hold it against Delly that she seems to live comfortably enough, but it is hard not to envy her for it.

"You were the nicest kid in the sandbox, Delly," I contribute. "How could I forget?"

My statement has her positively bursting, and I'm grateful, at least, that I'll have one friend here. Granted, that friend is already blabbering around to anyone who will listen that I'm _Katniss Everdeen,_ and how everyone should be making me feel welcomed! I don't recall her being of particular influence, but then, who is at age six? I guess she must be part of the more popular girls here.

"I'm so happy you're back, Kat!" she chirps, high-pitched. I try not to cringe too visibly. "Let me introduce- oh, no! _re_ -introduce you to some people! It's been such a long time!"

Before I can get a word in edgewise, she has me by the wrist and is pulling me through a crowd. Some faces vaguely look familiar, though, perhaps I'm kidding myself. She points out a few different students, though none of the names do more than bring the haziest of familiarities to my brain.

Ten-going-on-eleven years is a long time to sift back through. And a lot of changes can happen in that sort of time.

Most people look like complete strangers, greeting one another back to school. Once we have weaved past the thicker part of the crows, Delly mentions three distinct names which do not go with the faces my memory provides.

"You probably recognize this guy, right?" Delly parrots, grinning at me as we approach the trio at the end of the hall. She motions to the tallest boy among the three.

"Is that Darry?" I ask, eyes widening.

"You betcha! And, it's Darius now. He doesn't like the nickname, anymore."

Darius _('Darry,'_ as we used to call him) Newton has shot up, beyond dwarfing me. His red-blonde hair, hazel-brown eyes, and freckles are identical to my memory of him. He remains lean, too, but he's added some muscle over the years. It fills him out enough for him to surprise me. He even wears a Forks' athletics letter jacket, and when Delly says he is on the lacrosse team, I find it hard not to balk. Darry used to get picked on, and being a scrawny little thing, he had always been an easy target. Always the last to get chosen for dodgeball, he had more often than not been one of our sandbox buddies. Roughhousing with other boys always seemed to end with Darry- excuse me, _Darius-_ in the elementary school Principal's office.

His arms wrap around Delly's waist as she beams at him. I look away as they share a kiss.

I guess some things have changed in town, after all. Majorly so.

"Hey, Kat," a quiet voice pulls my attention towards the girl in the trio we have approached.

Angela Fox has managed to get what I remember to be a big mess of red, frizzy curls, coiffed and curled, cut to just under her chin. Still quiet, I always did think of her as a fox; and it wasn't just because of the surname. She had always been clever, sneaky; being by far the best at hide and seek. She'd have to come out, after a time, because once she'd gotten herself hidden, no one could ever find her. Angela's black-framed glasses look nearly identical to the ones I remember her wearing on the last day of kindergarten. Clear, blue eyes peer out at me. Her figure is still rail-thin, but she has grown a good foot taller than me.

"Angela?" I ask, for confirmation. She nods. "You look so different!"

I am too embarrassed to even attempt to apologize, with what I realize might be an unintentional slight. Angela's smile is far more reserved than Delly's; but then, compared to Delly, _everyone_ is reserved. Apparently I haven't offended my old friend, though, and I'm glad for that.

"It's good to see you."

"You, too." I keep my smile pasted on, as Angela gives me a light hug.

Between me and Angela, I can't quite decide whose side of the embrace is more awkward. I had definitely not expected this much physical contact today. I hadn't actually expected any, at all, apart from my sister.

"Kat Everdeen, mystery girl, returns!" a surprisingly deep voice sounds as Angela and I pull apart.

Thom Yorkie's gone to contacts, it seems, replacing the thick, taped-up, wire-rimmed spectacles I recall him having. He is wearing a Mathletes club t-shirt, but looks as if he could lift my and Prim's former trailer well above his head. He then proceeds to pull out his camera, saying he is in charge of documenting school events for Forks High School's television station.

I flat-out shove the camera, and Thom, away, offering a scowl.

"Hey!" Thom whines. "This is only day one of my school rental!"

"Well, serves you right," Angela pipes up, arching a brow. "What'd we say, about boundaries, Thom?"

Thom rolls his eyes, but puts the camera away. Angela retrieves some books from her locker, one of which looks to be entirely on poisonous plants. She catches me eyeing the books and gives a shy smile. Closing the metal door, she fiddles a bit with its lock, adjusting the added weight of books in her arms.

We linger just in front of Angela's locker, slowly ambling towards where the junior's home rooms are located. I don't have the heart to tell them, just yet, that I'm slumming it with the sophomores. Maybe they won't figure it out. I'll high-tail it as soon as they're in their own rooms. At least, that's tentative my plan.

Delly and Darius are following a few feet behind, stuck together like magnets.

"Can I just take one interview, Kat?" Thom sounds like a two-year-old. "Ten minutes, after school?"

"What for?" I ask, baffled.

"Just ignore him," Angela advises. "I find that works best."

"This is the only exciting thing that's happened all week," Thom defends.

"Hey!" Darry- _Darius,_ frowns. "We just won a game, why don't I get an interview?"

"It's not the same." Thom huffs.

"Why not?"

"'Cause that was a practice tournament, baby," Delly provides, giving Darius a teasingly sad look. "It doesn't count for the season."

"So?"

"So, it doesn't count!"

Darius feigns offense and Delly laughs. Her boyfriend leans down, nuzzling her cheek before blowing a raspberry in her ear. Delly erupts in a high-pitched squeal, which rivals even decibels which she has previously reached.

I grimace and avert my eyes.

"We need something different." Thom lets out an overdramatic sigh. "Nothing special ever happens here."

"I'm no exception," I retort, flatly.

"But you're something, at least." Thom continues to grumble, fidgeting with his camera bag's unruly zipper.

"Jeez, thanks," I mumble.

Angela, apparently the only one to hear me, gives me a sympathetic smile.

A new student starting is probably one of the few things (sports teams aside) to gossip about. I remember how, when the Stanleys moved into town, even us kindergarteners had heard talk about it.

Little pebbles make big ripples, if the pond they're thrown into is small enough.

Delly laughs loudly again, and momentarily, I think it's at me. Instead, Darius is whispering in her ear, with a mischievous grin. Their cuddling is making me a little grossed out.

It's funny, remembering everyone as first-graders, and now seeing them act like a adults- or, something close to it.

" _'New girl enters high school, gives us in-depth observations about her classmates.'_ " Thom waves a hand across the air in front of him, as if conjuring a billboard.

I wrinkle my nose.

" _'New girl in Forks: Friend or Foe?'_ " when no one reacts to this one, myself included, Thom throws his hands up in frustration. "You're all impossible. I've got nothing else."

"Then you're not looking very hard," Angela maintains, giving the boy a pointed look. "And don't invade someone else's personal bubble, now, just because you're desperate."

I throw a grateful smile at Angela, as our group pauses, outside of their respective classrooms.

"Oh!" Delly reaches out to me, tapping my shoulder. "Where's your schedule? What's your home room?!"

"I, uh…"

Before I can hide my schedule, which had been tucked in my palm, Darius has snatched it away from me. He hands it to his girlfriend, with an annoyingly wide smirk. I sigh, and watch Delly's excitement falter, ever so slightly.

"You're a sophomore?" Delly's frown furrows the crinkle between her brow. It would be comical, that expression on her face, if the whole group hadn't stopped to look at me, confused.

"Yeah," I answer, shrugging. "When we moved, they held me back a year, so…"

"Oh, that's okay!" Delly's smile is back on, in full-force. "Lots of people get held back."

"I have notes, from my classes last year," Angela adds. I glance at her. "If you want to borrow them."

"Thanks," I shake my head. "I'll be fine."

"Angela does tutoring!" Delly's excitement raises the pitch of her tone, as she hands me my schedule. "And so do some, um, other kids."

She and Angela both suddenly wear stupidly giddy grins. I can't help but notice Darius' jaw clench, as Thom rolls his eyes.

"What's so funny?" my scowl is back. I'm too confused to keep it in check.

"Nothing, it's-" Delly breaks off, shaking her head as she giggles.

"There's lots of different tutors," Angela finishes, giving Delly a look that seems to know something which I do not. "If you need one."

"I won't," I reiterate.

I don't like being on the outside of jokes, like this. I shift, uncomfortable.

"Well, I have to go, so." I give an uncertain wave before making my escape. Delly calls after me, to have a good day.

She says she'll meet me up after home room.

I'm not sure if I can handle the anticipation.

* * *

The day passes quickly, to my relief. Few and far-between assignments replaced with a monotony of introductions and 'class rules.' In computer sciences, we're informed of a blocker in the school systems, to prevent any of us from looking at porn. I feel my face burning, though most classmates snicker.

I know not a soul in any of my classes. I get a few stares, which is to be expected, but my small stature makes it easy enough to blend in- even in this _everyone-knows-everyone's-mom_ type of town.

Delly greets me after home room, and again, after first period. The 'gang' is not with her, which means no buffer. Nonetheless, I'm surprised by how much I appreciate having someone look out for me. Especially since, I hadn't known that the science wing is literally in a separate building. I'm glad to have time to prepare, mentally, though Biology won't come until after lunch. The gymnasium is separate, too, according to Delly, but I won't have to go there until after Biology.

Apparently, Delly is in my gym class. We also have the same alternating free period, which alternates, in my case, every third day with a Biology lab. Delly's alternates with Chemistry.

Since I am, unfortunately, still a sophomore, my free period means I need to stay on campus in study hall, whereas Delly is allowed to leave, if she wants.

"Not that there's really much to do around here, in forty-five minutes," Delly had admitted.

Being an opened campus for juniors and seniors will, at least, be a perk next year. I could get a break from being surrounded by people.

I won't need to drop out of high school to work this or next year, the way I have considered doing pretty much since age twelve. It's refreshing, that I'll get to do so.

Hell, I might even get to go to _college,_ something I wouldn't have thought remotely possible.

Stability has an awful lot of positives.

Although, it also has me feeling slightly trapped.

I think of Prim. I hope her day is going as (surprisingly) well as my own.

As Delly leads me down to the cafeteria, I can't help but miss most of what she is saying. The Homecoming dance is going to happen in only a month, which, in _'Delly-time,'_ is entirely insufficient time to give for fashion preparation. I'm fortunate to have Angela here as a buffer. Thom is working on a storyboard, for a short film he's working on with a friend of his, Ben, or something like that. I'm pushing my food around, every so often nodding, or forcing a smile.

It's not that I don't enjoy having company- I expected to be sitting in the toilet stall of the girl's room like the character in _Mean Girls_ or something. It's just that Delly's frantic energy is more than a little overwhelming. It only builds, as the period settles. Most of the kids are off the lunch line, seated in varied clumps around us.

According to Angela, Delly has been trying on dresses, with no success, since July. It's beyond incomprehensible to me, but Delly insists she 'needs' to find the right dress. Angela, more engaged in conversation, shrugs subtly at me, clearly recognizing my boredom.

"Oh!" Delly gasps, a hand covering her mouth.

I immediately look up, partially afraid that she'll begin choking on her lunch, from trying to talk and eat at the same time. Instead, I see a massive smile on her face.

"What's wrong?" I ask, though 'wrong' may not be the correct word.

Eyes widening, Delly frantically shakes my shoulder, until I physically rebuff her. She gestures emphatically. I half expect her to pop, like an overinflated balloon. I turn in the direction she is looking, towards the main doors that lead to the school's main hallway.

Everything seems to freeze.

 _Oh._ I blink.

I don't know why it comes as such a surprise. I've been thinking about him, on and off, ever since my mother said where she was having up ship off to.

I forget to swallow the rice in my mouth. It sticks to my tongue and the roof of my mouth. When I almost choke on it, I gulp it all down. It is like a lump of lard, unchewed and thick, traveling down to plop like a rock in my stomach.

The air seems thinner, and my heart is racing in my chest. The boy stands in the entry to the cafeteria, talking over his shoulder to a short, cream-skinned girl, with jet-black hair, spiking out at all different angles. The memories are flooding over me, and his pale skin is nothing to the flaming red I'm certain my cheeks have turned. He has certainly grown, taller, five-nine, if not six-foot yet; hands nearly than twice the size of my own. His arm and chest muscles, taut against a black sweater, are thick, and my eyes rove across them unintentionally. His profile reveals his cheekbones are still high, though they have hollowed out; there is no childish ruddiness to his cheeks.

No one ever leaves Forks, after all.

 _But…_

He turns in my direction, and all I can do is stare.

 _It's him._

Not fifteen feet from where we sit, stands blue-eyed, blonde-haired Peeta Mellark.

Only his eyes aren't blue anymore.

They're a rich, golden-brown.

* * *

 _Posting this early because it's cold season and everyone around me is sick, and because why not?_

 _I was *going* to post this earlier today, however, my cat interrupted right in the middle in order to replace everything with the following message:_

 _yuuuuuuuu44444444444lll ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;./≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥≥_

 _and then she restarted my computer :,)_

 _Thankyouforreading, comments/predictions/etc. are always appreciated! Hope you have a great week! (I may post Chapter 3 on Wednesday!)_


	3. Reflection and Deflection

**In which Peeta is uncommunicative, and Katniss is busy stabbing her stew.**

 **(Or, lunch.)**

* * *

 _Black scuff marks mar the floor in the hall. The service is inside, soft canned music and murmurings of conversations muffled by the rug and the thick, wall-papered walls. There are so many different flower arrangements stuffed into the small room, it had made me nauseous. I had tugged Primrose along with me, not trusting her alone with any of these people, least of all our remaining parental figure._

 _I still can hear the sobbing. I know, on instinct, that it is my father's widow._

 _I would call her my mother, but she hasn't been acting like one._

 _Prim has fallen asleep on the bench, next to me. Tiny, she's too tiny. A six-year-old who doesn't understand that it isn't a good thing, seeing mom's former fellow nurse's aides, or our late father's coworkers. The casket is closed, for which I'm grateful._

 _Her funeral clothes from the donation pile are a good three times her size. I'd have given her something of mine, but I had a hard enough time finding acceptable mourning clothing for myself, never mind her._

 _I had sang her to sleep. Prim had said she loved me as her eyes shut, and I felt tears prickle the corners of my eyes, not for the first time today._

 _The woman who gave birth to us seems to have forgotten about everything except her own grief._

 _I had to be the one to agree on the funeral director's price._

 _"Everdeen service?" I hear someone ask, down the hall, at the mortuary front door._

 _"Room D, last door on the right."_

 _I pick at lint on my black dress, the two-sizes-too-small-shoes on my feet feeling like boa constrictors. A few of my father's coworkers have given me unwanted hugs. Some stop, in front of me, trying to engage me in conversation._

 _I don't bother. Ignoring them has the effect I want: they go into the room to my left, and pretend to be affected by his death._

 _If they really cared, why did my dad have to work two jobs to make ends meet?_

 _If they cared, why did they let him, of all people, go with the group into the worst of the brush?_

 _Why didn't someone stop him?_

 _Why did he leave us?!_

 _"Hello, sweetheart," a voice draws me from my thoughts, and I look up to find my mother's brother._

 _If he's expecting tears and a hug, or if he's expecting me to scream and shout, well, he's disappointed on both accounts. I glower, but keep my face as impassive as possible. My throat feels thick with anger, but I don't let it out._

 _There's no point._

 _"No hellos, huh?" Haymitch hesitates, before reaching out, patting my hair. I smack his hand away, as best I can, but the effort receives a choked-off laugh. "I gotta check on my sister."_

 _"Good for you," I retort._

 _Because where was he, anyway? Where has he been in the weeks since all of this happened? In the days it took to find my father's body? The days and seeming years it took to get money enough together to pay the fees and costs? Dad's lawyer had helped us, sure- at a price. And where had this man been? He's my mother's brother, after all. He should have come to check on us, as soon as he heard._

 _Haymitch is as useless as her._

 _"Well, I hope you're more polite to a certain friend of yours," Haymitch's tone is snappy and sharp, but I can only look up in time to see him move, and another figure lingering in his place._

 _"Peeta?" I ask, staring._

 _He's taller. Much taller, although that's to be expected, with me seated and him standing. Still, he must have been a quarter of this height the last I saw him. Maybe he's going through puberty early or something._

 _Then again, his parents are both six-feet. His middle brother, Phil, was five-eight by age fourteen._

 _"Hi, Kat." H_ _is reply seems uncertain. His tentative shift in stance mirrors the tone._

 _All I can manage is a blank stare._

 _Why would he come here? Why would he care, when I haven't seen or heard from him since we were six- no, seven years old?_

 _He holds out a simple, black shopping bag, a white envelope stapled to its side._

 _"What is this?" I ask, frowning at him._

 _Is he stupid? Does he think this is a birthday party or something? Who gives a gift at a funeral?_

 _"Open it," he implores. His blue eyes shine. I can't tell quite what with. "Envelope first."_

 _And when I do, I think I might be the one who's died, and gone to heaven._

* * *

Peeta gives a flicker of a smile, from what I can see, across the room. He takes a step forward, but suddenly freezes. The smile disappears, and a look of disgust appears. Something flares in the golden-brown of his eyes, and lids narrow. Before I know it, he has turned, and walks in the opposite direction of where I sit. He selects a lone, empty table, in the far corner of the room.

The girl with the jet-black hair, eyes a similar shade of golden-brown, gives me something of a glare, before following Peeta.

I can feel my expression giving me away, faltering and crumbling into a furrowed brow of confusion. He is sitting as far away from me as possible.

Why?

I tear my eyes from the sight, swallowing heavily, and trying to ignore the sting of hurt. Confusion must be on my face, still, for Delly clears her throat.

"So, you remember Peeta!" she says, rather anticlimactically. "That's him!"

 _Peter Jeffrey Mellark_. I remember him introducing himself to me on the first day of kindergarten.

 _"I'm Peter Jeffrey Mellark!"_

 _"…"_

 _"Wanna share crayons?"_

 _"No."_

I haven't really expanded my conversational vocabulary all that much.

Between his oldest brother's speech impediment, and their family being known for their specialty, hand-crafted bread, the nickname _'Peeta'_ had followed Peter Jeffrey Mellark like a bad cold almost from the day he was born. Unlike _'Darry,'_ I guess he hasn't fought the imprinted name so much. Or, perhaps no one has listened.

"Supposedly." I ultimately answer Delly. I cannot keep the disappointment out of my voice, hard as I might be trying.

I focus my eyes on the cafeteria's interpretation of beef stew (though, looks more like something out of a garbage can), all that is left on my styrofoam tray.

"Well…" Delly doesn't seem to know what to say to that. "Well, you haven't said anything, though! Maybe he's waiting for you to say hi!"

I give her a disbelieving look, before turning back to my food.

"He probably didn't see you!" Delly insists.

Thom scoffs, and Angela sighs.

"Let's go over there-!"

"Delly," I say, louder and sharper than I mean to. I shake my head.

Delly's frown is back, only the second time I've witnessed such a thing, to date.

"O-or, maybe he doesn't recognize you!"

"Kat, I'm sure he didn't mean anything," Angela adds, quietly.

Delly nods vehemently. I can feel my cheeks burning, and pointedly stab the beef bits in the stew.

"He's probably just surprised to see you."

"Sure," I agree, flatly. I fill my fork, skewered bits of beef on the ends, and stuff them in my mouth. As I chew, the food feels like rubber against my teeth.

Peeta looked more 'revolted' than 'surprised.' I'm not about to lie to myself.

"Peeta's… been through a lot," Delly says, pausing to seemingly consider her words. "He doesn't really talk to a lot of people anymore. I mean- he does, he's really nice! But it's- I mean, he's quiet, now."

"Why's that?" I look up from my inspection of my stew, brows knit together.

"For one thing," Thom rejoins, looking up from his storyboard. "He's too good for all of us."

Peeta always seemed more social, though I guess, like me, his personality has altered over time. I just wouldn't have expected for him, of all people, to become reticent. A quiet, snobby Peeta? I cannot decide if I'm more disappointed in myself, for not having stayed in contact, or in the faltering of my pristine image of the boy with the bread. The beauty of having kept myself distant was in part found in my imagining the wonderful life he was having; that, without having to concern himself with the trivialities of survival like me, he was still bound to be that kind, smiling boy I had known as a child. The sweet boy who came to my father's funeral- more than could be said of almost everyone else in this town, except Haymitch. Haymitch is family, though.

It's different.

"Well…" Angela pauses. "It's really not for us to say."

"His lost his family," Delly blurts out.

I blink, my mouth opening slightly as I process this. "What?"

Angela shifts in her seat, visibly uncomfortable with the topic. Delly, on the other hand, has no reservations. Her eyes widen, and there seems to be a similar growth in girth of her smile, with the prospect of gossip.

"Ohmygosh, it was, like, two years ago?" she speaks quickly, in what is probably her best attempt at a whisper. It falls painfully short. "I'm sure you saw the Mellark's bakery is gone, right?"

I shake my head slowly. We got into Forks less than a week ago. The most we had done was take a trip to Walmart, and check out Prim's middle school, to calm her nerves. We had not spent a lot of time in what passes for Forks' merchant center, or town square. Haymitch had (thankfully) been bringing home takeout these past few days, as Prim and I did a little bit of unpacking.

The Mellark Family Bakery Shoppe had been located on the town's main street, only a few buildings away from Delly's family's restaurant, Stanley's Cookery & Pub. The Bakery had been in the family since the late 1940's. My father told me once that, even before the Bakery opened, the Mellarks had been known for their baked goods.

Why the Bakery would have to have closed is beyond me.

 _Duh, stupid,_ I cringe to myself. _They just **said** why._

The only Mellark left isn't even eighteen. He'll be seventeen in a week, I know. We both have early September birthdays.

"Well!" Delly persists. "It happened when they were on vacation- you remember how they used to take a trip up to Vancouver every winter?"

No, I think to myself. Delly doesn't give me time to respond, anyway.

"There was an accident while they were up there- you should ask Haymitch, I'm sure he knows! They won't say what, it's all very hush-hush-"

"Avalanche," Thom provides. "I heard it was an avalanche."

"Guys," Angela tries to shut Thom and Delly up. I'm too intrigued to back my quiet fox-friend up.

"Well, Paul and Phillip, they got killed," Delly's enthusiasm halts, ever-so-slightly, before she continues. "Mr. and Mrs. Mellark were missing for a time, they found their bodies in the spring after the winter thaw, it was _awful-"_

"Delly," Angela groans.

"And Peeta ended up in a coma- Brain trauma or something."

"Or something," Thom grumbles. Angela shoots him a chastising look, and he shrugs, going back to his storyboard.

"Is that why his eyes…?" I don't realize that I'm waving my fork in the air, until I nearly poke myself in the eye. I set it down, and my fingers begin to fiddle with the styrofoam edges of my tray. "He looks so different."

"Yeah," Delly's forehead pinches. "It's from medicine they used, to get Peeta out of the coma? At least, that's all I've heard. Octavia Mallory, her mom works in the hospital- she says her mom says some nurses were saying stuff about it. Peeta doesn't talk about it."

I wonder, if Delly has tried asking, or if she realizes that asking is just as rude as gossipping. I should be more ashamed, of joining in the chitchat, but then, I'd rather get some information than none. Peeta clearly doesn't intend to speak to me. For how long, I can't be sure; maybe never again.

"I heard he's going blind," Thom adds, absentmindedly. He scraps an entire panel of his board, grumbling to himself under his breath.

"I don't know," Delly shrugs. "But one of his cousins is usually in each of his classes-"

"Cousins?" I ask.

I don't remember many other Mellarks, outside of Peeta's parents and brothers. If I recall properly, Mr. Mellark's sister had died in a hit-and-run, when she was young. The senior Mellarks had passed when we were toddlers. Mr. Mellark had been raised an only child, and then took up running the bakery himself after his parents left it to him. I don't know anything about Mrs. Mellark, other than that she had a tendency to spank Peeta if he didn't come out of the playground when she demanded.

"Oh!" Delly's enthusiasm returns. "I skipped ahead, sorry. Doctor Cullen adopted Peeta!"

If I'm meant to be impressed, I fall short. "And who the hell is Doctor Cullen?"

"A weirdo," Thom contributes. He doesn't look up from his board, probably knowing the glare Angela is giving him. "His first name is Aurelius for Christ's sake."

"Sounds like a myth," I muse. I'm pretty sure it's either Roman or Greek, in origin. The '-ius' suffix is the former, I think.

"Sounds like a weirdo, is what."

"He works in the hospital," Angela explains to me. "He's one of the head doctors in the emergency room."

"He's got a bunch of kids who look nothing alike," Thom continues. "Plus, who adopts all teenagers? He takes them on 'outings' all the time, too. I bet they-"

"The Cullens are all adopted." Delly rolls her eyes at her friend. "Of course they look nothing alike. I'm pretty sure he adopted the rest of them as kids, Peeta's the only teenager he adopted. And you know the outings are supposed to be part of Peeta's rehab." Delly looks to me. "Peeta had a really bad leg injury, too. You can't see it, when he walks, though. He nearly lost the whole thing, from what I've heard."

I really wish this wasn't so interesting. This really shouldn't be, I know for sure how it felt being gossipped about at my last school; but then, we had all been friends as kids. I'm allowed to be curious, right?

"Doctor Cullen is Mrs. Mellark's cousin, apparently," Angela turns to me, tilting her head slightly in Peeta's direction. I'm careful not to look in that direction. "Only living relative. His wife is a psychotherapist, too, but retired her practice before they came here. They moved to Forks, with their kids, so Peeta could stay here. That's one of his cousin's he's with, right now. They all have lunch this period, too."

"Yes!" Delly nods. "The girl, sitting with Peeta? That's Johanna Cullen, she's a senior. She's… nice."

Thom snorts back a laugh.

"She's just a bit stand-offish," Delly maintains, sounding defensive.

"That's one word for it."

"Thom!" Angela snaps. Thom throws his hands up in surrender, going back to his project.

"Where was I?" Delly hums to herself for a beat. "Oh! The cousins. So, there's Finnick Cullen, he's a senior, too. He does tutoring. He's a pretty big deal on the swim team."

"He looks really good in a speedo," Angela whispers, slightly bashfully.

I try not to look as disgusted at that as I feel, because, honestly, growing up in the desert, there are a lot of pools, and a lot of wannabe swim gods. I've seen it all. I don't think anyone can look good in a speedo. Maybe Michael Phelps (or whoever else has won Olympic Gold multiple times); and, at that, only when he's in the water, mid-race.

"Madge is the youngest, she's a freshman, but, she takes a lot of honors classes. She's sort of quiet, but a complete sweetheart. She's on the Homecoming committee, with me."

"And Peeta's a junior," I finish off.

"No," Delly says thoughtfully. "Peeta's actually a sophomore, sort of like you. He had to take a year off, after the accident."

So, Peeta almost died, got treated, somehow had his eyes changed, now has mysterious cousins for siblings, and may or may not be going blind? And needs a cousin around at all times? I can't help my suspicions, but return to my beef stew, slightly miffed. Because he also will be graduating with me in two years, in this case. Which means, I might have classes with him.

And he clearly hates me.

"He wasn't in any of your classes, Kat?" Angela asks.

I shake my head, curious myself. I hadn't seen him down in any of the sophomore homerooms, either.

"He didn't really know them before, his cousins." Delly reverts the conversation ten steps backwards, before pausing, to sip some juice. "But they're all really close, now."

She knows Peeta's family better than I do, knows a lot more than I do about town goings-on, so I have to trust her assessment. Their families had some catering agreement or something. Almost everyone in this room probably knows Peeta better than I do, with all the years that have passed since I last actually spoke with him.

But something about the whole situation just seems… peculiar. Maybe it's just that Peeta so clearly wants nothing to do with me.

Insults always throw things off.

"It's good for him, having his cousins around," Delly continues. "He doesn't really do a lot, I never see him at football games, even. I guess cause he's still a little unwell from everything. But he's really comfortable with them."

I eye my stew for a distraction, most of the beef bits gone by now.

Shame. The beef had been the only good part of it. Particularly, stabbing the bits.

"Without the Cullens, he'd be in foster care. Who knows where he'd be?"

I feel a chill up my spine, tensing at Delly's words. The threat of foster care had scared the hell out of me. I can't begin to imagine, if I had lost mom, dad, and Prim all at once… I'd probably be even more grumpy than I already am. I'd be beside myself.

And I'm not the one going blind, or whatever.

No wonder Peeta's disposition has changed so much.

I'm still annoyed. I'm trying to push 'hurt' to the back burner, but it's there, all the same.

The outdoor entrance to the cafeteria, at the room's rear, clicks opened as a breeze wafts in. The fury of the wind, and the scent of after-rain, sweeps through the room. I glance up. Two figures, a boy and a girl enter, their coats loose, hair windswept. Some wet leaves tumblesault across the floor, as the wind shuts the doors behind them with a loud bang.

The 'boy' (young man, really) is far taller, even, than Peeta. His hair is dirty blonde with hints of copper. His bronzed physique seems to draw everyone's attention, standing out against us mere mortals. His eyes are an odd, muddied-up green, his jawline chiseled and cheekbones sharp. He resembles Adonis, or some classical work of art. He makes a show of taking off his jacket as he walks, and while part of me wants to cringe, I can't deny that my stare is more than a little conscious. He looks as if he is walking a couture fashion runway. His clothing, or at least his shirt, is tight, with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows, revealing that the unseen aspects of his body are probably just as fit and appealing as what the eye can see. Although undoubtedly still young, he looks like he belongs in a magazine spread, not in Forks, Washington; not in a small-town high school. I cannot help my stare, and from the drool I see on the lips of some of my fellow classmates, neither can anyone else.

He clearly knows it, too. The smirk on his lips is typical of your average, self-absorbed douchebag. I have enough experience with those types from my old school.

The girl walking with him has flowing white-blonde hair, and barely reaches the young (douchebag) man's chest. She leans in as they walk, whispering something which makes the former boy with her laugh aloud. Her own eyes are tinted blue, though brownish; they still shine against the crisp, white dress which she wears. With soft, delicate features, and pale, ivory skin, she looks like an angel. Her cheeks are still rounded, at that cusp of age where you can tell she's bound to get even more beautiful in the next few years. I can easily see why she might feel an equal to the boy.

The couple make a beeline to the table at which Peeta and 'Johanna' sit.

 _Huh,_ I think. _Not a couple, then._

"Finnick and Madge Cullen," Delly has leaned in, to whisper conspiratorially. "Isn't Finn dreamy?"

All three of us, Thom included, stare at her, wondering if she realizes what she has just said. Delly blinks, glancing at us all in turn.

"What?" Delly laughs. "Oh, come on! I love Darius, obviously, but a girl has eyes."

Angela shakes her head with a smile.

"I hear he's slept his way through the entire senior class," Thom scoffs. "He's an asshole."

"Oh, shut it," Angela swats at Thom, who barely dodges the aim.

Delly's face reddens, and I can feel my own cheeks burn. Looking at the Cullens, but Finnick in particular, I can certainly see the appeal. And Peeta… well, he is attractive, I must admit. Johanna, I haven't seen up close, but if she is as pretty as Madge, I can only assume that the Cullens have made it their particular mission to adopt attractive children.

Maybe Thom is right. Maybe this Dr. Cullen is one hell of a weirdo.

"He's on the swim team- Finnick, that is." Angela pipes in, repeating herself. I don't mention that she's already been over the whole speedo-thing. "Broke all-county speed records last year."

As they take their seats with Peeta, I see my childhood friend murmur something. Almost immediately, the blonde, Madge, jerks her head in my direction. Her stare is instantly penetrating, and I divert my attention.

I clear my throat, still feeling that intent gaze on my back.

"So…" Angela taps her fingers on the table. "Do you want to review anything for English lit?"

I shake my head. I end up sitting in my self-imposed silence, as Delly returns to talking about Homecoming.

* * *

 _"I can't accept this," I say, flatly. I thrust the check back in his direction. He wavers, before shaking his head. "Peeta, I can't-"_

 _"It's yours. You give it back, I'll send another in the mail."_

 _"At least take the other stuff-"_

 _"Kat," he shakes his head. "It's yours."_

 _"I don't **want** it." my voice cracks and I force my face into a scowl, trying to mask the quiver I feel in my lower lip. "I don't want any of it, just take it and go home."_

 _I expect him to say something. He stares at me, instead. I clench my jaw, keeping my eyes steady and self-assured. I'm not sure how much time has passed, but Prim begins to stir beside me. I look to her, reaching out and tucking her pigtail back over her shoulder, so it doesn't cover her face. She isn't waking, and I heave a sigh of relief._

 _I stand, surprising myself, and Peeta as well. We're practically face to face, though I remain guarded enough not to take a step back._

 _"I'll take the food," I say, my eyes flickering up to meet his._

 _"The check is from my family," he reminds me. "We'll just send another-"_

 _"I'll tear that one up, too."_

 _"Why?" Peeta frowns at me. "Kat, I'm just trying to help."_

 _"Well, don't."_

 _"I can't just leave."_

 _His hand wraps around mine. I freeze, my breath heavy as his own._

 _"Kat, I just want to help."_

 _"Why?"_

 _"I need a reason?"_

 _"Yes," I retort. "Yes, you need a reason. You don't know me, Peeta, you haven't spoken to me in years. You're only here because you feel bad."_

 _"So what?" Peeta asks. His thumb dances in a tap-tap-tap, against my skin, which I don't fully understand. "Kat I've thought about you a lot."_

 _I don't know what to say to that. Mostly, because I don't believe it._

 _"Haymitch told me he was going to whip me back to last Sunday if I asked anymore about coming with him."_

 _"You wanted to come here." It isn't a question, but it is repeated aloud; for, I cannot understand it. "Peeta, you shouldn't have come, and you shouldn't have brought something like- like this-" I wag the check in the air- "For someone you don't know."_

 _"I do know you, though," he replies._

 _"Do you?" I raise a brow._

 _"Yeah," he nods. "I know you're tough, that you're going to try and get your mom and Prim through this. I know you're trying to pretend like that's all there is to you-"_

 _"That is all there is. I'm really not that interesting."_

 _"Kat, I'm not here to be..." his forehead crinkles, and he shakes his head. "Look, I'm here because I want to help you."_

 _"What if I don't want help?"_

 _"Then, I'll keep sending checks in the mail," he starts, glancing down with a slight smile at the check in my hand. "And don't say my parents will stop me, you know my dad. And, on the off chance my mom says no, I'm going to send you a dollar a week and, you know... that'll eventually add up to that same amount."_

 _I don't know what to say, and so I whisper that to him._

 _Peeta shrugs, says I don't have to say anything at all._

 _"You're full of it," is my final defense._

 _Peeta just shrugs, before glancing back at the black bag. "You still like cheese-buns, right?"_

 _That's when I press a kiss to his cheek._

* * *

 _thankyouuu for reading! I planned on posting before today, but life got busy. I hope you enjoyed! as always, comments/etc. appreciated!_


	4. (Un)Friends

The next class, Trigonometry, passes in a haze of syllabi and lectures. Apparently they split the year between Trig in the first half of the year, and Pre-Calculus for the second. I have always gotten by fine, in math, but it's not exactly my favorite thing. The teacher's voice is also terribly difficult difficult to listen to, and my unfortunate mind lingers back to the look of happiness that briefed Peeta's face, before he stepped a bit closer and suddenly became disgusted.

What did it mean? Why did he look so excited at first, so much of the kind boy I remembered, then suddenly alter in the matter of a footfall?

It was as if coming too close made him physically ill. I try to tell myself that it doesn't matter; I have Prim, and I have some friends, at least, who have been friendly today.

I try to pretend that it's not failing to have Peeta's support which rubs me the wrong way. It's being rebuffed before I even try to get to know him, again.

Though, perhaps I never knew him. And now, despite trying to feign indifference

"Please come up and collect your books," the teacher interrupts my thoughts, once all of the rules and packets have been handed out.

Textbook collecting has become the bane of the day for me, I've decided. How many textbooks should a person really need, when half this stuff is online? I'm lucky if I have enough room in my locker. I probably will only be able to take a few home textbooks, without breaking my back at the end of the day. Even my Public Speaking teacher, earlier in the day, said we'll be using tablets from the Library the majority of times. We had been made to fill out these dumb sheets basically saying we'll be responsible while using the technology. I feel like it's a little odd, filling out wavers without a parent (or lawyer) present. No one else had said anything, so I went with it.

Whatever.

I think my backpack might be insufficient for the Math workbook, textbook, and four packets which are due by October 1st. And that's just the one class. I am grateful that my locker is on the way to my Biology class, seeing as I expect even more things to be added to the ever-increasing weight.

I toss books and binders messily in, before slamming the metal with a clang. My feet pound against the tiles, before I head out across a central courtyard, making a left, towards the the science building. Administrative offices and the main school building sit parallel to one another across the courtyard, on the east and west, while the gymnasium and the science wing on the north and south (respectively). The design forms a neat, well-maintained little courtyard at the center. Curiously, there are no benches, but there are four trees at each corner (at a quick glance I cannot tell their species); and plants, alternately striped the school's colors, blue and yellow, fill the four edge-gardens. Four sets of slick red brick converge at a central point, which purposely forms a central circle with a massive flagpost. It is nice, to have a walkway in this manner, perpendicular and cutting clear from one parallel building to the other. At the same time, though, with the crowds of students, I nearly walk straight into the pole in my haste to get to class.

The lack of precipitation in the air comes as a relief. I make a mental note to pick up a Dollar Store umbrella to keep in my locker, just in case. Unless there's a hallway I could shortcut through. Surely there has to be. If not, well...

Shit, I think to myself, cringing as I enter the Science building. What am I going to do when it snows?!

I weave through the slowly emptying hallways, with Delly's directions to this class on repeat in my head. Passing through the third wooden door on my right, I feel a breeze as a standing fan to the right of the teacher's desk whirs lazily in my face, for a greeting. The bell rings, and I am about to panic, when my gaze flicks to the empty desk in front of the chalkboard.

I sigh in relief, turning to seat myself at one of the lab tables.

My relief is short-lived, though, because I see Peeta Mellark- no, Peeta Cullen sitting in the middle row. He looks just about as thrilled to see me, now, as he had earlier in the lunchroom.

Perhaps his dour expression is, as I soon realize, due to the only empty seat in the classroom being at his side. I gulp, scouring the tables for any sign of relief. I clench my jaw, determined to find any hope of sliding in at any of the other tables of two.

No such luck. No empty chairs linger in the room, either.

Hunching my shoulders, I take a deep, steadying breath, and begin to make my way forward.

Time to be a big kid, I think.

I avoid looking at him as I approach, sure to keep my seat as far scooted to the end of the lab table as possible. I do allow myself to peek out the corner of my eye, monitoring him. He has, similarly, edged away on the seat of his chair. He keeps his eyes on the row of windows to his left. I could swear he's holding his breath as he avoids looking at me.

I huff, deciding that, if this is a contest, I will definitely win. I stare straight ahead, setting my eyes on the blank chalkboard at the head of the classroom.

This is going to be a painfully long class.

At least, it would be, only Mr. Latier has yet to show up.

Peeta's hands slowly ball tighter and tighter, until I am certain they are going to crack clear apart. Anger wells up and my jaw presses my teeth so tightly together, I think my jaw will just split, same as Peeta's knuckles.

Conversations stir up, discussions slowly rumble, threatening to become a roar. I check the clock just above the door and cringe at the realization that hardly two minutes have passed. Time is excruciating in its lax passing.

What is the rule, again? Twenty minutes? Ten?

Peeta is shifting in his seat next to me, and I glance over, seeing he is leaning his head in the direction of the nearest opened window. His chest is hardly moving- it's still as if he is holding his breath. His shoulders do not raise with any inhalations, and his left hand slowly reaches up, covering his mouth and nose in his palm. The irritation inside of me becomes too much.

"Is there a problem?" I finally snap. I am grateful for the din around us, which isolates my words from prying ears. "If you're pissed at me you should at least tell me why, goddamnit."

Peeta seems to be debating whether or not to look at me; his eyes keep flicking between my own, and the ajar door. He finally settles his gaze on me, intently so, as his hand eases off of the lower portion of his face. I can see the palest remnants of brownish freckles across his cheeks, but they are faded, as if he has not exposed them in quite some time to sunlight. The golden brown reveals the slightest flecks of black in the amber. I wonder, if I looked closer, if there might not be blue hidden, somewhere in there. He does not give me much of a chance to investigate, however, and quickly cuts me off, turning his head to give me only his profile. His mouth slowly opens, but before any words come out, his pupils dilate.

I don't get to ask what his issue is.

Peeta bolts out of the room.

* * *

The bathroom toilet stall shuts with a dull, metallic cling. I quickly slide the lock, undressing while my mind mulls matters over. The look on Peeta's face, not just at lunch but again in Biology, and what Delly had said about him... something isn't right.

I sigh, trying to push him further away from my mind.

I am early to class, at least, compared to my apparent classmates. I decide that changing now, and afterwards lingering about until Delly's arrival, and/or the commencement of class, is far more better than being just 'on-time.'

Peeta's abrupt exit from class, which for the most part becomes dismissed following the slovenly science teacher's late appearance, plagues me with an unsettled knot in my stomach. Had I hurt him so badly? Had I been unfair, in some way, to have become so wrapped up in survival that I neglected a barely-there friendship?

No, I think in self-reassurance. I don't owe him anything. Especially if he's so prissy as to not even say what the problem is.

I realize I am shaking my head and stop. I slide my sweatpants on, before pulling a sweatshirt over my upper body. Exiting from the stall, I store my clothing in my mostly-empty knapsack, keeping company with my sole remaining science books and spare binder. I bring the knapsack with me, setting it on the bleachers where I can keep an eye on it. I haven't gotten a second lock for a gym locker, yet, and I don't want to risk leaving my wallet, or pay-per-use cell phone unattended. Not that I have anything worth taking, but still.

You never know who might steal your clothing and throw it on a cactus.

"Miss Everdeen," someone calls from the far end of the gymnasium. A dark-skinned woman motions to me to come towards her. I obey, picking up my bag on my way. "You're our transfer student, correct?"

"Yes," I say, slightly wary.

Other students are milling in towards the locker rooms; others, still, emerge from the rooms, clad in an assortment of gym shorts and pants. Delly, with shorts far higher on her thighs than I am comfortable seeing, waves exuberantly at me.

"I'm Ms. Atala," the woman says. "It's nice to meet you."

"You, too." I force what I hope to be a polite smile.

"Miss Everdeen, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to head to the main office- I'll write you up as present for the day, but I really can't allow you to participate until we have all of your physical results in from your last school. I just need them to check in the office, if I just didn't get the information or if your old school failed to get it all sent out."

I frown, because this was all meant to have been taken care of before I got here. Maybe there's some sort of mix-up.

My teeth grit, as Ms. Atala hands me a hall pass, giving me a dismissive, 'Thank you,' upon departure. I gather up my bag, giving a forced smile to a frowning Delly on my way out. When I cut through the courtyard, I need to pull my sweatshirt up to prevent a blown-in hazy drizzle from soaking and frizzing up my hair.

I make my way to the office, the halls oddly quiet and barren, but stop outside plate-glass windows, lining the office. Just on the other side of the translucent panels, I see a white-blonde head of hair, tilted to the side. Madge Cullen's eyes stare forward, unblinking, a frown puckering the crease between her brows. I follow her hazel-blue eyes to the secretary's desk where, just in front, stands Peeta Mellark. He is gesturing emphatically, waving a piece of paper in her face.

I swallow heavily as the secretary calmly (bordering boredly) repeats what looks like, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Cullen,' over and over again. She gestures herself, towards the entry to the office. With visible exasperation, Peeta turns defeatedly, to follow the path upon which the secretary encourages him. Which leads him, within a few steps, to stop and stare at me.

Thank God for the protection of the glass. I think I mutter, "Shit," and can practically feel myself shaking. I clench my fingers around my late pass, replacing the shock on my face with an indifferent, blank stare. Taking a deep breath, I open the office door, with some difficulty due to its weight. I march clear past Peeta and his cousin. I make my way to the secretary, handing over Ms. Atala's note, explaining the situation. The secretary tells me to hold on a moment, and picks up an incoming call. When I turn, I feel a lurch in my stomach, because now Peeta and Madge seem to be having some form of disagreement, as well.

Madge is shaking her head, though their voices sound like mere hisses to me.

I still can't help but catch Peeta's parting words: "Then you fucking deal with it!"

I can practically hear 'her' substituted for the last word.

So, he doesn't want to 'deal' with me. What the fuck does that even mean? The sting of hurt returns, with a swelling of anger rushing up from the recesses of my mind.

What did I do?!

I still can't understand. Unless he is living in some other reality.

He wrote me a letter, after he'd come to my father's funeral. It was full of vivid descriptions of his daily life, of Forks- of unsaid implorations tocome and visit. To write him back.

I didn't. I didn't know how to approach the whole thing.

I was busy. I was trying not to have me and Prim taken away from the only 'home' we had left.

I thought he'd be better off, never hearing from me again. Haymitch never mentioned Peeta, in the few and far between times we've 'talked' since then.

Does the boy who gave me money and food, and more than half a chance at survival, hate me for that? For not writing him back?

Does he resent me, that much?

How dare he! I can't help the anger inside of me. It threatens to spill out from between my lips.

Peeta stalks out, slamming the office door shut. The glass panels shake in his wake. I stare after his retreating form, before I switch my gaze to Madge. She is watching me carefully, likely trying to gage how to move forward.

"Miss Everdeen?" the secretary distracts me, and as I turn to speak with her, instead, I hear the door open and shut with a whoosh. "I just need to make some calls to the nurse, and look through our records. If you can just check over some of this information I've gotten so far?"

Madge has followed her cousin-slash-brother out the door.

I release a tense sigh that I didn't realize I've been holding in.

Finally, I can focus again.

* * *

American History wraps up my day, with a decidedly uneventful, 'See you tomorrow,' from the teacher. The drizzle-storm finally dissipated, leaving a grey sky to obscure what appears to be a white sun in its absence.

Delly meets me just down the hall from my locker, engaging me in a breathless non-stop game of twenty questions about my plans for the next week. I am just about to snap, when she contributes that Madge Cullen is probably going to be carpooling with Delly, Darius, Angela, Thom, and Ben, for the Homecoming dance. Apparently, Thom asked her, and the freshman had given a tentative yes; she needs her father's permission. I cringe, though I turn my head so that Delly cannot see it.

"So, what do you think?!" Delly asks. Darius waves to us from his spot, on the hood of his car. I'm hoping Delly will have forgotten my lack of response, in her temporary make-out session with her boyfriend. Instead, she turns to me with an even more terrifying question; "Kat, who will will you take to Homecoming?!"

The question gives me pause. I shake my head. "I don't think I'll be going."

"What?!" Delly shrieks, earning some snorts and smirks from students milling about in the lot around us.

"Delly, she doesn't have to go, if she doesn't want to," Darius rolls his eyes.

"But why wouldn't she?!"

"It's not really my thing," I say, shortly. Before I can get more testy, and before she can attempt to push Ben or some other guy as a potential 'date,' I make a break for my car. "I need to pick my sister up. I'll see you later."

"Okay!" Delly calls after me.

* * *

Haymitch had offered to get my sister.

Haymitch had offered, and I turned him down. I am slightly regretting that decision, because somehow, despite receiving buckets and buckets of rain every day, more or less, people here apparently don't understand how to drive in a drizzle. Ridiculous notion, but it's either that, or I am just too anxious of a driver.

That could be it. There are a lot more drivers here than I am used to, to be honest.

I take the final left, before backing my stalling and audibly protesting truck into the junior high school's parking lot. Though attached to the elementary school, the two-story brick building which my sister has attended is physically attached, via administrative offices, to the younger children's school.

I notice, at most, a handful of parents waiting around outside, mostly at the elementary doors. Only one sits in front of the middle school, on a probably-wet-park bench. A school bus loiters just past the front entrance, and I suppose most kids in the area take the bus, then.

I momentarily think, Perhaps Prim could take it.

But what if something were to happen in transit? I barely trust my sister in the hands of my uncle, never mind a stranger.

No, no, this is better, knowing she's to and from school, safe and sound.

Of course, I'm still convinced Haymitch is drunk more often than not. Having been in the car with him, though, I do have my doubts. He never once drove above the speed limit or stopped beyond the line at lights, or stop-signs.

A cluster of soccer-moms, in either velvety tracksuits (completely unfit for actual workouts) or yoga pants, linger off to the right, umbrellas in hand. I'm pretty sure they're waiting on the elementary school kids. They're all looking towards the one-story brick building, rather than the two-story junior high. Some of them have littler ones who tug and whine, wanting to be released. One woman has a baby strapped to her front, and I notice her eyeing me as I turn the engine off.

Hesitation stills me, while I glance at my watch. Junior high is meant to be done at 3:15 p.m., and though it had felt like forever, it had taken me less than the fifteen minutes I had set aside to arrive here. I take a deep breath, grabbing my phone, just in case, and head out across the lot. I figure, depending on how Prim's day has gone, she may want something familiar, at the end of it.

I hop up the curb, before pausing a few feet from the school's front door. I look around, spotting a bench not far away. It is not raining, so the seating would be great- only there is a burly young man who has the spot claimed. Perched on his lap, bouncing on his knee joyfully, is a little girl who looks about three or four. I grit my teeth, turning and facing the doors.

The gaggle of women down the sidewalk are gathered into a tight circle, and I can practically feel their stares. It wouldn't be the first time I deal with prying eyes, but the difference is, I feel so put on the spot, it is difficult (after the day I've had), not to react.

"...awfully young for a kid," I hear.

"Maybe she's with the Black's boy."

They may be a bit away, but it's not far enough to drown out that judgmental quip. I don't know the context of that second statement, but if they're referring to the young man on the bench, then I feel insult on his part. The little girl with the man on the bench squeals something indecipherable.

Shitty people always do have the biggest mouths.

I glare at the women, before flipping the staring group the middle finger. One woman gasps, holding a hand to her chest, while the others, finally, avert their eyes. One soccer mom cuddles her poor innocent toddler, covering the girl's eyes.

I'm surprised when I hear a hearty laugh. I whip my head to the right, eyeing the man on the bench more closely. He gives me a thumbs up. At that expression, the little girl on his knee begins to clap. I stare for a bit, before returning the gesture with a tight smile.

He looks more than a bit like my father, and the notice of this has me turn away from him.

Tall, muscular, with a head of dark brown hair and dark olive-toned skin, much like my own. The only difference is the young man has dark chocolate eyes, unlike my father's grey. My paternal grandmother's family had, somewhere along the line, been related to the Quileute, one of the Native American tribes. They have a reservation, up in La Push. I wonder if this boy (if you could call him a boy) was one of my distant cousins, a thousand-times removed. I can't really call myself Quileute, though, and I half wonder if he'd be offended, me pointing out the ancestry when even my grandmother had only the faintest recollections of some of the stories, and traditions. My father remembered even less than his own mother, and me? Forget it, I can't make a claim, except that I have darker skin.

I cross my arms over my chest, grateful when the junior high school bell rings, and Prim comes out. She is grinning widely, the expression lending a sincere smile to my own features. She waves goodbye to a group of girls, as she heads to me, and they to the bus. I notice, too, that apart from her girl-friends, there is a boy who calls out her name, running to catch up with her. Together, they walk, but have a conversation which has my sister's grin even wider than before.

She always has been better with people than me.

I try not to have all of my alarm bells go off at once, as the boy and my sister speak animatedly in their approach to my position.

"...and you could come and collect shells, we've got a ton of them!" the boy rambles.

I realize belatedly, that this boy is nearly a carbon copy of the young man on the bench. This is confirmed when the man comes and stands next to me. The little girl is rested on the man's hip, and reaches out, hands all over the place. I think she may be reaching for me.

Far closer than I like, honestly.

"Are they straight from the ocean?!" my sister engages the boy further, looking intrigued.

"Not exactly, but it's right on the water!"

"I'd love to see it!" Primrose exclaims, before looking up at me. "Kat, can I go?"

"Go where?" I frown, immediately tensing as the man steps a bit within my (large) personal bubble. He chuckles and I feel my nerves on edge.

"La Push," the man answers, confirming my earlier thoughts. He ruffles the boy's dark hair playfully. He earns a cringe from the boy, who subsequently tries to push the man's (I assume, his father's?) hand away. The man catches the boy single-handedly, gripping him into a twist, though not gruffly, so much as playfully. "You telling tales?"

The little girl screeches, and the man shushes her softly.

"No!" the boy grumbles.

I'm surprised, to see the boy quickly twist out and shove the man back, with unexpected force. The man barks out a single chuckle in response, before slapping the boy on the back. The little girl's lilting voice is lolling some stray syllables here and there, before she begins to play with the man's shirt collar.

"Who's your friend?" I ask, mostly to my sister. I raise a brow, trying to quell my suspicions.

"This is Rory!" Prim says happily, turning to Rory. "This is my sister, Kat!"

"Nice to meet you," Rory says, thrusting a hand forward. I can't help a slight smile, at his boldness, and shake his hand. "And this's my brother."

I turn, facing the young man, and step a bit closer to my sister, putting an arm around her shoulder. Prim says nothing, though she shifts under my half-grip.

"Gale Black," the young man offers, similarly offering a handshake as Rory had. His expression nearly mirrors my own, and I wonder if he is as wary of his brother's new friend, as I am of my sister's.

The little girl in his arms makes some sound that I guess resemble Gale's name.

"This is my littlest sister, Posy."

"Kat Everdeen," I offer.

It seems almost like a truce, between us two, as he nods, expression thoughtful, serious. I give the little girl, Posy, a small smile as she makes to dive out of her brother's arms. She gives me a wide-mouthed grin, tiny teeth poking out. She starts clapping again, and Gale gives her such a sweet, soft smile that I can't help but think is meant to be seen only in private. It dissipates, as soon as he looks back at me.

"You're from La Push." I realize, when I say it, that I've forgotten to frame it as a question.

The kids in Quileute typically go to a reservation school, so it's odd to see Rory Black attends the junior high. Technically, I guess, the reservation is within the school district. Unless they don't live on the reservation at all.

"Yeah," Gale says flatly, eyeing me carefully. "You're the Sherriff's neices?"

"Yeah," I return, mimicking his tone. "You're a friend of his?"

This, at least, cracks a laugh out of him, as before.

"Nah, my dad's worked with him a couple times, though. Billy Black."

Billy Black.

The last name drifts through my head, and I recall an older man sitting at an ancient Easter dinner, clinking Haymitch's bottle with one of his own. I don't remember Gale, though. I don't remember the man whose face is coming to mind ever coming over with anyone else.

"Worked with Haymitch?" is all I pick up, and repeat.

Gale shrugs, turning and nodding at Rory. "Got all your stuff?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Good, we just need to wait on Vick. "

"You live on the reservation?" I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral; careful to keep from being too curious.

"Yeah." Gale's eyes flick to me. "Well, I live My parents are living in town, now, so the kids go to school here. But they come to the reservation most days, there's a lot of programs we don't want them missing out on."

"Tonight's the healing circle!" Rory says, excitedly.

Posy blows a raspberry, and Gale tweaks her nose.

"Oh." I clear my throat, feeling as if I've gotten a little more personal than Gale likes. It's certainly not my typical habit, to get a ton of information about people I don't know. I look back to Prim. "Ready to go, duck?"

"But Rory said-"

"Primrose," I warn.

Prim pouts, but turns and tells Rory she'll see him tomorrow.

I glance at Gale, nodding at him. He does the same, and I depart without a word further.

Prim regales me with anecdotes from throughout her day, so clearly ecstatic about her new school. As we pull into the driveway, and get out of the car, a few spits from the sky make us rush inside.

"Kat, how was your day?" Prim asks, voice brimming with hope.

I shrug, pulling out some frozen chicken to defrost.

She gets distracted, running over to scoop up an invading Buttercup.

And I try to pretend that I'm not still hung up on Peeta Cullen's crappy attitude.


	5. Rush(ed)

The morning is slick with rain.

Seriously, it's everywhere. Cold and wet, and multiplying each second. It's amazing to me, that back in Arizona we had to worry about water shortages, while here, water seems to be pounding down a foot a minute. But this doesn't make me grateful. Instead, it makes me slightly revolted. Everything I go to touch is _moist_. It's horrific.

Covering in thick sheets of droplets, the rain persists with lighter torrents berating me as I exit my car. I'm preoccupied with worries about Primrose, despite my uncle talking about safety inspections and driving records.

I still can't believe I said okay to Primrose taking the bus to school. Mostly, it had been to get her to stop pouting- I never have liked having my little sister disappointed, or denied anything. Logically, there isn't any good argument to her taking the bus.

I am still picking her up after school, though, despite her pleas.

The other factor, to Primrose taking the school bus, is Haymitch. Or, rather, my lack of trust in him. Don't get me wrong, he did an all right job the first two days, but seeing him bleary-eyed and visibly hungover, I cannot trust that he is capable of safe driving. If it were just himself, that would be one thing, but when it involves my eleven-year-old sister, I have something to say about the matter.

And say it, I have.

My uncle has gone so far as to let me inspect his cups of coffee these past few mornings (thankfully bereft of any and all traces of alcohol). And I've only seen him with a beer or two with dinner. Less, I think, than he normally would be ingesting, had we not been around. He must have been a well-functioning alcoholic for so long by now, that he's sure to go through a withdrawal- but, when I had insinuated that he could get his own niece killed, it seemed to get through his thick skull. I'm sure he is still drinking a lot more than I can see, though, and he more or less admitted as much to me on day three.

I threatened to take his car keys away. Not just to the Nissan, but his Sheriff's ride, as well. Haymitch had yelled and screamed, but after a time, he had come back and apologized- in Haymitch's own way.

 _"I won't drink in the goddamn morning, okay, sweetheart?"_

He hadn't done more than scowl, when I gave him the pamphlet for Alcoholic's Anonymous. I did notice the empty liquor cabinet, though, last night.

I nearly miss the Cullens walking just a few feet ahead of me. I cringe, purposely slowing my steps. It is only after we enter the school building, and the figures remove their rain-jackets, or close their umbrellas, that I notice Peeta. Rather, I notice his conspicuous absence from the group. I am careful to slow my steps, glad to lose them in the crowded halls.

I tell myself that I don't care if he is home sick today.

I don't, really. It's just morbid curiosity, at this point. Morbid curiosity that is pointless, as well. It's not like I'm going to get my answers.

And, maybe, just _maybe,_ I don't want them, anymore.

Peeta has carefully avoided me the past few days. With this first week drawing to a close, today, I would hope we might have gotten somewhere. Instead, it's full-throttle 'keep-away,' and I have not had a single opportunity, at lunch or in class, to try and break the cycle. I don't know, if he has switched his lunch period, or is just skulking somewhere, but he has not appeared with his cousins during that period since the first day. I have not watched them, myself, but Delly has been _sure_ to update me at every second she gets.

At least he hasn't gone flying out of the room, like on the first day. And at least Mr. Latier hasn't been late to class, since, which means we begin and end class promptly.

I sigh heavily, shaking out my jacket with some level of disgust. I hang it, carefully trying to arrange my books so that the jacket will not soak the endangered items to be found in the far-too-small rectangle. Giving up with a scowl, I slam the door shut, adjusting my still-wet backpack on one shoulder.

Delly meets me before and after homeroom, still determined to have me find a date before Homecoming. That we still have a whole month fails to dissuade her.

* * *

I am cutting down a side-hallway, one which Delly (blessedly) showed me two days ago, as a means of avoiding the courtyard. She had made it sound as if it were impossible to get anywhere without going outside. With the gallons of rain and wind outside, I'm glad she had made mention of this hallway, however belatedly.

I am just coming around the corner into the science wing, when a decidedly _unfairly_ put-together Madge Cullen passes me. She gives a shy smile, and friendly wave, on her way. Her sister, Johanna, is at her side, merely giving me a blank, unimpressed appraisal. Johanna's chopped-off black hair sits haphazardly, looking unbrushed. Her eyes, amber-brown with elongated lids, currently narrowed, seem to be as penetrating when they look at me as Madge's. I cannot help but follow the sisters with my gaze on their way.

And that's when I slam right into a cold, solid mass of flesh. One which bears curly blonde hair.

He stumbles off to the side, tripping as I half-land right on top of him, knocking him fully to the ground with a thud.

His entire body goes rigid, as I struggle to stand, and get off of him. He watches me, pupils oddly dilated, before clearing his throat, and standing up, himself. He collects himself quicker than I do, proceeding to collect his books. I lean down, passing a binder and textbook to him. A lot of loose papers have become dislodged from his notebooks, and I try to set them in neat piles, before offering them back.

"You don't, er," he clears his throat, and I notice his eyes flitting everywhere except my own. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I offer. I don't realize how I am staring at him- an unintended mixture of awe, and confusion, until the class bell rings. "Shit."

Peeta just shrugs, gesturing towards the classroom. I hand him the last of his papers, and lead the way. I half-hold the door for him behind me. Mr. Latier doesn't notice our tardiness. He is in a deep discussion with another teacher, a woman who I'm quite certain everyone calls Wiress. Which sounds odd, so I guess it's some sort of nickname. I've passed her while she has been on hall duty, once or twice, and despite being by herself she usually seems to be muttering to herself. She teaches Advanced Placement Physics.

I'm grateful for the distraction, as Peeta and I take our seats. I pull out last night's work, while Peeta searches through his now horridly messy piles, to try and locate the packet which we are meant to hand in today.

"Need help?" I ask, flatly.

He looks flustered, though, judging from the set of his jaw, my offer to help is not wanted.

If anything, he looks resentful.

I bite down a snippy retort, instead taking the opportunity to glare at my own packet. I can hear his rustling about.

Mr. Latier wraps up his conversation, and in a fit of desperation, Peeta simply slams a random sheet of paper, which resembles the assignment layout, but is visibly from Spanish class.

"Seriously?" I hiss at Peeta, as Mr. Latier calls the class to attention.

Rather than collecting the packets, Mr. Latier decides to call us up, at random, to place the answers, or at the least discuss the answers, on the classroom's SmartBoard.

One answer after the next, I feel myself sinking onto my seat. Because, of the past twelve questions, I have only gotten two correct.

"Now, obviously, I do not expect everyone to have all of the answers, as some of these questions are from future readings," Mr. Latier is saying. "But, it is important, that all of you know where you are currently at, in order to prepare. I would suggest, if you have not read up on all of the material, to do so this weekend. There is no reason, if you have, that you should be at less than seventy-four percent with this particular assignment."

I feel as if he is looking directly at me when he says this. I had read the chapters- really, I had, but then Prim had needed help with her homework, and my French homework was a killer, and my American History paper is due this coming Monday, and...

"Miss Everdeen?" Mr. Latier calls me out and I swallow over a lump in my throat. "Question thirteen?"

I stare at him for a long time.

"Miss Everdeen?"

"What?"

"Question thirteen," Mr. Latier repeats, raising his voice.

I hear snickers all around me.

I glance down, scanning the words.

 _Ecosystems tend to change with time until a stable system is formed. All stable ecosystems are characterized by the presence of:_

 _a) a specific climax vegetation influenced by the climate of the area_

 _b) trees as the most abundant autotroph in the area_

 _c) fewer primary consumers than secondary consumers in the area_

 _d) a larger number of heterotrophs than autotrophs in the area_

I haven't circled anything. I haven't circled a goddamn thing.

"It's A," Peeta hisses next to me, covering his mouth with his hand, to cover him from everyone's gaze.

I shift in my seat. I hardly have enough time to eye him with the suspicion I feel. He doesn't even have the assignment, how the hell would he know the answer? He catches my eye, nodding as if in reassurance. I take a deep breath, hoping to God that he's not just bullshitting to embarrass me.

"A, sir."

Mr. Latier nods, clapping his hands together.

I swallow heavily, giving a curt nod. I expect him to move on, but he doesn't.

Instead, he asks, "Could you explain to us why?"

I stare at the teacher for a long while.

"Nope," I finally say.

Mr. Latier shifts his focus to someone else. The rest of the period passes by, and I am more than ready to fly out of the classroom, but I, unfortunately, am pulled aside. As is Peeta.

* * *

Peeta walks with me to American History. I don't get why, and while I don't rebuff him, I do nothing to make him feel at ease next to me. I'd really rather he took about fifteen steps away, then turned around and walked clear home. The last thing I need is talking to someone who is hot and cold at the drop of a hat. Especially, after being handed the Forks High School one-on-one tutoring pamphlet.

Mr. Latier says he'd like me to sign up for Biology. I hadn't bothered to respond, unless you count expressions of mortification and anger as a verbal response.

Peeta doesn't step too close, as we walk, which I appreciate, but he has attempted small-talk. Asked me, about Prim and Haymitch; about who I have for American History, who I have for English Lit. I've grunted monosyllables, and with the awkward silences in between, you'd think he'd have gotten a clue.

Apparently, not.

I ask him why he's not going to his own class, instead of mine. He says he has a 'zero-period,' before homeroom, so he doesn't have class last period. He's awfully friendly, for someone who has completely ignored me now, for four days previously.

"You should do the tutoring," Peeta blurts out, just as I am about to head into my class.

I glare at him.

"Not that you need it, but if-..." he tilts his head as he talks, and I notice him suddenly holding his breath for a time, as his pupils dilate. He turns to go.

"Maybe," I finally offer. He pauses, turning to me, looking uncertain. "You'll have to recommend someone."

He nods, finally opening his mouth. He looks like a dead fish, momentarily, and I see his shoulders rise and fall, with a heavy inhale.

"Go see Mr. Blightman, in Guidance," he pauses, seeming to look about us, and not at me. "He'll assign you someone. "

* * *

Gale Black is waiting outside of the junior high school, again. The baby isn't with him, and we barely exchange stiff nods. I clear my throat, grateful that we both seem to have been forgotten by the soccer moms outside of the elementary school.

"So," I begin awkwardly, watching the front doors like a hawk.

"So," he returns, tone seeming as wary as my own.

"Think Rory will've invited my sister to live with you yet?" I ask, sarcastically.

This earns me a lighter chuckle than I would normally expect from this gigantic man.

"Hope not," Gale offers after a pause. "I've got a lot of work, for school."

I nod, as if I understand. Which is funny, because there is clearly no way for me to know what he is saying.

"College?"

"Community college."

"Oh," I say.

This seems to conclude our conversation, for a time.

"I'm going for forestry," he tacks on, which I appreciate.

I nod again, feeling a little dumb for it. "That sounds cool."

Me and my keen conversational stylistics are really _brilliant_ at times like these.

"Oh," he adds, as Rory and Prim come over to us. "And tell Haymitch his other uniform's all tailored; can pick it up anytime, her assistant, Janet, will be there. Mom's gonna be in La Push this weekend."

Gale lets out an overdramatic _'oof'_ as Rory nudges his brother's shoulder.

"We're going for the meeting!"

I quirk a brow, checking Gale's face for an explanation.

"Tribal counsel," Gale says, going no further than that.

"Enjoy your... meeting," I offer.

Gale nods in acknowledgement, before beginning to wrestle with his brother.

On the ride home, Primrose insists to me that Rory _and his family_ agreed to let her come to the tribal counsel, tomorrow night.

And I have, for one of the few times in my life, a difficult time not yelling at my baby sister.

I really hope Haymitch knows how to get into contact with the Black family.

If only to apologize on my sister's behalf.


	6. Something simple

_Playdates, coincidences, boyfriends, and more._

* * *

"Katniss?" Prim's voice drifts through my haze of dreams.

One-part vague recollections of the desert, two-parts feet pounding through the sands, I don't know what to make of it. A hand jostles my shoulder, but I groan, rolling on to my other side.

"Katniss, you need to get up!" Prim pulls the pillow which I have crushed my face up against, shaking my shoulder again.

"Five more minutes," I manage, tone groggy.

"No, Katniss, I need to go soon! I'm supposed to be at Rory's!"

"Mm," I concede as coherently as I can. I cringe, finally pushing my sheets off and sitting up.

"Haymitch tried to wake you up hours ago, he says you threw pillows at him."

I snort, only vaguely recalling my uncle barging in calling me sweetheart.

No one ever called me a morning person, even if I've gotten up early out of necessity.

Getting woken up by a sarcastic Haymitch Abernathy at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning is not a necessity. Though, seeing him pelted with fluffy pillows had been fun.

"Serves him right," I mutter, mostly to myself.

Prim jumps on my bed by my feet, bouncing up and down.

I grab my brush from the nightstand, working at the knots in my hair. Prim is already fully-dressed, her hair neatly pleated in twin braids. I smile slightly, reaching over and tweaking the end of one braid.

"Did I do good?!" she asks, her eyes seeking my approval.

"Not good, Duck, _great,"_ I assure. I smile at the visible excitement she has, at my approval. She has a bit more of mom in her, if she can twine braids like that. "Mom would like them."

Prim bites her lower lip, while lips splay out in practically a letter U. I shift out of my bed, the wooden boards creaking slightly.

"Let me take a shower," I say, and she hops off, leaving me to collect myself.

My clothing still lingers in boxes. I guess, to some extent, procrastinating has been a means of living here less real.

I get an outfit together, still trying to look a little less like antisocial Katniss Everdeen, eternal hot mess. More approachable.

I consider, as I search for some conditioner in the bathroom, that if I get a job, I might be able to get some nicer things for Prim. School pictures would probably be occurring some time in the next month. She shouldn't have to wear second-hand forever.

Haymitch said something last night, when he got home from a meeting, about buying Prim and me clothing for the schoolyear.

I told him to shove it.

He called me a stubborn ass.

It was great.

It isn't so bad, really, but the reality of sticking it out in Forks for the next two years, still has yet to sink in. Of course, I've done all the hard parts- driving with just me and Prim through about five states. Mom had offered to accompany us, and then fly out to the East Coast from Seattle once we were at Haymitch's. But the idea of having to spend hours with _her_ in a car had paled the fright of gas station pit-stops, and motel-stays.

Once cleaned up, I mosey my way downstairs. Haymitch's bird is twittering away in his cage. Prim says he's got a lot of things to work on, and I don't really care enough to ask, if she knows more.

Prim has some juice, toast and cheese for me waiting in the kitchen, and we depart before long.

Another rain-soaked morning is gripping the surroundings, making me cautious with my speed. My foot lingers over the brake pedal, prepared at any moment to slam on it. Knuckles are taught, nearly white as fingers grip the wheel.

I hate driving in this weather.

The inclemency only seems to become more pronounced as we near La Push.

The houses are well-kept, though the torrent from on high sets reflective glints of sunlight ricocheting off rooftops. It contrasts with the morose weather. The number of minivans and trucks about the streets makes me smirk slightly, thinking about flipping off the soccer moms at the school.

"Number eighteeeeen!" Primrose sings, pointing over to the left.

I nod, pulling into the home's driveway, shared with the house next door. Number eighteen has painted red shingles. It is one story, and small, smaller than the other houses around it. I recall Gale mentioning, that he lives here, with his cousin, Paul; that it's just him and Paul, for the most part. He really hasn't gone into much more detail, but the idea of not only Gale and his cousin, but his three siblings and parents, all living here at least for this weekend baffles me. I can't imagine sharing space with that many people, being on top of one another constantly. I don't mind with Prim, sure, but back in Arizona, it had been more than slight madness, trying to make our way from one part of our trailer to the other, when it was us and mom combined. I can't say I didn't get frustrated, or claustrophobic, from time to time.

I cannot for the life of me, imagine living with six other people in such a tiny house. Even if I loved them to death- but then, I suppose, you have to do what you have to do.

A long, wooden ramp connects the front door to the driveway Prim is rushing to get out of the car, thankfully remembering to don her lime green raincoat on her way. Gale greets her at the door, stopping her enough for her to remove her boots and jacket. We greet each other stiffly, with Prim rushing into the house. I can hear her greeting Rory from further inside, and a chorus of voices there tug for my instincts to stand on edge.

"Thanks," I say, as Gale takes my jacket, hanging it up.

I pull my arms around my center, following him past the front hall and into the living room. The television screen has a paused video game, with controllers littering the floor. Rory and my sister are scooping up some snacks from the coffee table. A littler boy, a third copy of Gale, is shoving at Rory. Vick, I know, from once or twice seeing him after school. Rory is patiently ignoring his little brother.

Posy waddles over, stumbling just before Gale scoops her up. She squeals, tapping Gale's cheeks. He pulls a silly face, making her giggle. The contrast, to how big and burly he appears, is comical. I hear a distinctive whir and tick-tick-tick, and turn to see a brown-skinned, raven-haired man, with sharp, angular features. He is seated in a wheelchair, long hair braided back. And his dark brown eyes snap to mine, not so much in inspection as surprise.

I know, instantly, that this is Billy Black, Haymitch's friend. Some part of me remembers him singing, once, and sharing drinks with Haymitch at a holiday dinner.

"Little Kat Everdeen," he says, before his lips pull up into a smile. He holds out a hand. "Don't suppose you remember me, huh?"

"A bit," I offer, shaking his hand. His grip is warm, and firm. I note the strength of his arms, compared to his shriveled legs.

"I'm sure you hear this a lot, but you look just like your dad. I was so sorry to hear about his passing, a few years ago."

I give a strained smile, without otherwise responding. Instead, I sweep the observation away in a dark corner of my mind.

"This is my dad," Gale introduces.

"Well... stepdad." the man smiles slightly.

"Technically," Gale's his jaw visibly tightens.

"Yes, technically," Mr. Black echoes.

Gale's expression is blank, and he turns back to a squirming Posy.

"Dow-dow, Gah-wel!"

He sets her on her feet, but watches her, as she toddles towards Vick, Rory, and Prim.

"Billy," the man says, after a time, even though there isn't much point.

"Hi," I reply, feeling a tad awkward.

A bustling at the rear of the house is followed by the opening of a door on the other side of the room. A short woman, with a wide build and long, hip-length hair looks into the room. Her chocolate-brown eyes widen, softening when they fall upon me as she smiles. She looks flushed, her apron dusty and oven mitts on her hands. She is in profile, at first, but when she turns to me I am suddenly shocked by the distorted, scarred half of her face. I stare, quite intently, and don't realize, at first, how happily her own gaze is intent upon me.

"Katniss!" she exclaims, beckoning me across until I oblige. When I do, she pulls me into a hug which I only half-return. She pulls back, holding my shoulders and smiling widely. "I haven't seen you since you were a little girl. You've grown so much! I remember you bouncing on your father's knee, running around the store while I altered your mother's maternity clothes-"

I try to only focus upon the lovely, unmarred side of her face, but I cannot help but glance at the scars, thick and deep and warping her cheekbones unnaturally. I'm sure I would have remembered her, but it's been years. I'm grateful that she doesn't seem to expect a response to any of her continued talking.

"And Primrose!" Mrs. Black tugs my sister in for a hug. Prim smiles, before Rory calls her attention away, to look at something on the game console. "Oh, she's just like your mother, I remember the day she was born-"

Mrs. Black continues, but my eyes won't stop flicking to the scarred side of her face. It has clearly healed; it's not fresh, not bruised, or bleeding, but... it looks horrific. An oven mitt pats my cheek, and I'm grateful for the action, which draws me from my thoughts.

"I'm Hazelle, by the way." Mrs. Black removes her mitts, and ushers me towards the kitchen by the elbow. "And you're just in time, too, the cookies have just-"

Mrs. Black is cut off by Prim, Rory and Vick, along with a waddling Posy, who push past us towards the kitchen.

"Rory!" Gale calls.

"Primrose!" I scold, at the same time.

The boy has paused enough, at Gale's warning tone, to mumble an apology. My sister, similarly, freezes, hardly biting back an embarrassed smile.

"Did you even say hi to Mrs. Black?"

"Hi, Mrs. Black," Prim says, shyly.

"Hello, honey- and please, call me Hazelle!" Mrs. Black holds out the hot-gloves, which Prim takes after an uncertain look in my direction. "Since you're all headed for the oven."

"Thank you!" Prim gushes. She and Rory shoo Vick and Posy back from the oven, before Prim carefully takes out the cookie tray out, setting it on the stovetop.

I watch, smiling a bit, and am grateful when Mrs. Black sets up some coffee and hot chocolate for us 'grownups.' I'm also grateful that I'm not made to feel as if I am imposing on my sister's play-date. Mrs. Black and Mr. Black are talkative, more so than I can fully keep up with. Gale, much like me, contributes little to the flow of conversation. They wave me off, and Gale shrugs, when I thank them for having me and Prim over. I reiterate, that I don't expect to stay for the tribal counsel, despite my sister's moans and groans.

 _"You're really not missing much,"_ Mrs. Black had insisted, with a laugh. _"Gale's of age, and even he has trouble sleeping through most of the meetings!"_

I haven't seen Gale ever blush, before today, but he just about came close, at that comment.

 _"I can only hear so much about the community's winter activities,"_ he had shot back.

Mr. Black had grunted, in agreement, and Mrs. Black had hushed him.

I gather that Gale's roommate-slash-cousin, Paul, is staying down the road, with his fiancee, for the weekend. Mrs. Black had tried to convince him to stay, but he had insisted the Blacks have the house to themselves.

I can't say I blame Paul. They're a lovely family, but I wouldn't want to stay here, either.

I'm even more grateful, when the rain abates outside, to follow Prim and Rory down to the reservation's beach. It feels good to get out of the house. Gale walks at my side, neither of us having much to say. It is a bit out of the way, the beach, and clouds still loom overhead, as if another downpour is imminent. The younger two seem unfazed, both my the distance, and by the dampness of the cold air. While the two run about, examining all different sorts of shells, conversing near-hyperactively about the animals in the area, I stand with my arms wrapped around myself, coiled up and trying to ignore the sting of the wind.

Gale shifts, to my left, and I nearly start, having been so caught up in eyeing the clouds out on the water, and my sister's proximity to the lapping waves. My companion sets down on a large-enough piece of driftwood, elbows resting on his knees. He seems to be doing something similar to me, checking out the threats in the area. I can't help but wonder, if he has had something more similar to me in his past, or if it's just his nature.

I'm still not sure, if the reason for my overprotectiveness, is from our history, or my own bleeding heart.

Prim is the only person I've ever been sure I love.

She's got kindness in spades, and kindness has always made me weak.

I clear my throat, sitting a pace or so away from Gale.

"Imagine if they caught a fish that way?" I throw out, as my sister and Rory toss rocks as far as they can into the water.

Gale cracks a laugh. "I think we'd all starve, waiting for them to make a kill."

"Prim would cry," I mutter.

I think of when Primrose was eight, and her science class had a class chick in their room. She would cry if she even saw a chicken leg. I had to chop it up or at least take it off the bone, mix it into some rice or other things, to fool her into eating it.

"Good thing we don't need to live like that, huh?"

"Live like what?"

"Hunters," he replies. There is something sharp, to his tone.

Disgust, I think it is. When I look at him, his face is blank, pointedly empty. His jaw is clenched, again. Discomfort fills me.

"Tracking, then killing so you can live..." he trails off for a moment, staring out over the water. He clears his throat, shrugging, looking down at the rocky sand beneath our feet. "Used to be able to live off fish, here."

I feel as if he's trying to say more, but I can't read it right. I don't know him well enough, and there's something... unsettling, about his tone. I just look back to where my sister and his brother have begun to return to us.

"Thank God for supermarkets, right?" he says, chuckling.

It sounds forced, but I don't push for him to return to what he was saying, about hunting.

"Sure," I finally retort.

Prim's hands are filthy with silt and sand, despite her insistence that she had washed her hands in the bay. I can't help but shake my head, amusement creeping in as Gale scolds Rory. He makes the two kids hose their hands and boots down, before going into the house. Rory rolls his eyes, but gives a mock salute and obeys. Prim teases him, and the two nearly soak one another in a waterhose-fight, before Gale and I stop them.

It is dusk when we leave. Prim's hair is limp, and still damp, in some spots. Her clothing has dried off, for the most part, but I'm sure I'll need to wash the jeans, especially, quite thoroughly. She's happily flushed and practically hopping up and down, so it's worth it, to me.

Gale walks me to the car, while Mr. and Mrs. Black linger at the front door.

"Uh, see you Monday," Gale offers. "Drive safe."

I nod at him, getting into the driver's seat. "You too."

I bite my tongue, feeling stupid for that reply; but shut the door, and start the engine up.

* * *

We are roughly halfway to town, discussing what to have for dinner, when Prim poses an odd question.

She asks, "What if I want Rory to be my boyfriend?"

My hands seize up, and she is lucky that my foot doesn't as well. Because that question is so, horribly, _terribly_ wrong.

"What's that?" I managed, in a strangled voice. I clear my throat, trying to compose myself. I keep my eyes on the road.

"What if I want Rory to be my boyfriend?" Prim asks. Her tone is innocent, childishly so, but she is so clearly serious about it that I cannot help a frown puckering my brow. "He's just so nice and smart and I-"

"You're eleven."

"But I-"

"You're _eleven,"_ I repeat, firmly. "You can't have a boyfriend."

"But, Kat-"

"No!" I burst out, sharply. "Primrose, you are eleven years old and you're not allowed to have a boyfriend!"

"But Chrissy at school has-"

"I don't care what Chrissy or Molly or any of the girls at school do!" I'm struggling to keep from screaming, and pause only to make a right-hand turn, heading into town. "You're not allowed. We're not having this discussion until- until you're twenty!"

"That's not fair," Prim argues.

"I don't care, the answer is still no."

"Why?"

"Because I'm your sister and I'm telling you that you're not allowed to have a boyfriend yet."

"What if _you_ wanted to have a boyfriend?!"

"I don't, though. And I don't need one, and neither do you!"

If mom hadn't been so hung up on losing dad, then we wouldn't have gotten as bad a lot as we'd gotten. We're beginning to get past it, or at least I am, but the sting is still there. You're better off not loving, not loving like _that._ That sort of dependence, reliance, complete failure to function as your own, singular person? Losing the world, because you lose one person?

I could never stand to see Prim's heart be broken, like that.

Plus, she is a child- she's wearing her hair in pigtails, for God's sake, and _since when did children even **want** boyfriends at eleven?!_

Prim huffs, crossing her arms across her chest and sinking back in her seat. She mumbles something, but I ignore her, focusing on parallel parking. Once secure enough in the spot, I put the car in park, and search through my wallet, to make sure I have a decent enough amount to satisfy my penny-pinching side.

 _I'm still going to need a job,_ I muse.

"C'mon," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. "We'll get something at the Stanley's Cookery & Pub."

Prim does not make a move, something which I only notice once I have exited my truck. Frowning, I go around to the other side. I stand outside, watching my sister and counting to ten. When she makes no move, I open her door.

"What?" I ask, trying to keep my voice gentle as can be.

"I'm not hungry," she mumbles.

"Well, I am."

"Well, I'm _not,_ " Prim says, her eyes finally meeting mine. She's scowling, actually _scowling_ at _me!_

"What is it, Primrose?" I ask, exasperated.

"I'm eleven, not six!" she yells.

I flinch, looking around and flushing slightly, seeing some stares from people milling about around us.

"Prim," I start, quietly. "We're not talking about this."

"Why can't I have a boyfriend if I want a boyfriend?!" she persists.

"Because," I reply. I don't continue. Instead, I shake my head. "Look, are you hungry, or not?"

"Not," she says, flatly.

I sigh, shutting the door on her. I click the lock, turning and heading in the direction of the Cookery. I stop, in my tracks, because not five feet away from where I have pulled over stands Peeta Mellark.

Well, Peeta _Cullen_.

He looks as flustered as I do, but I feel a sinking weight in my chest.

I hadn't meant to pull over in front of his family's former Bakery. I look up, seeing the beautifully decorated windows and dark, unlit sign. _The Mellark Family Bakery Shoppe_ still lingers, in beautiful calligraphy, though the paint has already begun to warp and curl off with neglect.

All that is missing, really, are the bright yellow inner lights, and the food-filled shelves for display.

"Hey," I whisper, clearing my throat and repeating it, to make it sound more purposeful. "Hey."

He nods at me, taking a step away, glancing over to my left. I'm not sure what he's looking at, at first, but I see he is glancing at my sister. He gives her a small smile, and, to my surprise, she waves back at him. I clench my jaw, turning to my confusing classmate. The wind is blowing in, again, and I can feel a mist on its breath. I cringe, pulling my jacket tighter.

"How's your weekend?" I ask, trying to keep my tone pleasant.

Like I haven't just scolded my sister or gotten her angry with me, for one of the few (first) times, ever.

"Fine," Peeta retorts. His nostrils flare, and for a moment, I see that revulsion repeat itself. He coughs, looking at the Bakery with something like desperation before returning my gaze. His pupils are still dilated, and his thick hands are balling into tight fists. "You?"

"I want to get dinner," I say, flatly.

"Ah," Peeta nods, taking a deep breath. "Cookery's still the best."

"So I've heard." Silence comes between us, and the words are on my tongue before I mean them to be. "Peeta, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry?" he repeats. He stares at the other shops across town's main street. "What for?"

"For..." I can't bring myself to say that I'm sorry for not keeping in touch, or whatever, so I choke that notion down. "I'm sorry... about your family."

He clears his throat, nodding. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." I'm floundering with what else I have in the back of my head, but the desire to play nice is still there.

He's just so closed off.

Now I know how people saw me, after my dad died. Because closing everyone out is the easiest thing, when it comes to keeping from breaking down entirely.

I grit my teeth, and can't help but wonder, how much easier it would be if we could both just say what we're wanting to say, no worries, no modifiers.

I don't know if it would make things better, or worse, honestly. But at least everything would be out in the opened.

"Busy night?" he asks.

I glance up, and realize the smile on his face. He's teasing me. Peeta Cullen is _teasing_ me, because I've been standing here, puttering, and not actually doing anything.

Obviously, yes, I am _terribly_ busy.

"Not so much. Just... trying to think of what to get for Prim."

"Give her liver and onions," he offers, eyes darting away from mine again. At the least, though, he is still smiling. But I could swear his chest has neither risen nor fallen since the last word left his mouth.

"Yeah," I find a light laugh forming, at the thought of my sister eating liver. First of all: she wouldn't. Unless I convinced her it was chicken. Otherwise, it would gross her out, as would the scent of onions. I can't say I blame her, especially since we're not half as needy as we might have previously been. "If we get that desperate, I think I'd rather eat my sister's cat."

Peeta gives a bemused smile. "I'm sure there are plenty of things around here you could hunt down, before resorting to cat-ibalism."

I smile slightly, before we both fall quiet.

That's the second time today my acquaintances have referenced hunting.

"She's a little... picky." I unintentionally give my sister an exasperated look, only to be surprised.

Prim, funnily enough, is unlocking the door, and slipping out. She comes to stand about a foot away from me, I suppose because she is still as annoyed with me as I am with her.

"Hungry?" I ask.

Prim nods, not looking at me. She smiles shyly at Peeta, though, and I try not to be jealous.

 _Christ, please don't get a crush on Peeta Mellark, Prim,_ I think.

"Primrose," Peeta gives a smile, but his eyes still look dilated, and I could swear that, once again, he is trying not to breathe. "I'm Peeta, I don't think you remember me, but-"

"You went to school with Katniss!" Prim finishes, smiling. "She used to have a picture of you on our nightstand and she said you were-"

"Prim," I interrupt, feeling my cheeks slowly heating up.

I did have a picture, of me, Delly, Angela, Darry, and Peeta in the kindergarten playground. It got reduced to mushy garbage when the yirt flooded during monsoon season. I had told Prim, how good and kind Peeta, in particular, was, when she asked about the kids in the picture.

"Do you want something to eat, duck?"

"Mhm," Prim presses her lips together, glancing at me. I'm not sure, if it's an apology or not. "If you do."

"I'm starving," I admit.

"Do the Cookery," Peeta nods his head, in the direction where the place lies, a few buildings down. The Stanley's family restaurant is glowing with bright lights, through the foggy air. Canned jazz music quietly plays from outdoor speakers. "I think Delly and some of her friends are in there."

"What about you?" Prim pipes in, tilting her head and watching Peeta. She looks slightly concerned, as if him not eating at the same place we are thinking about eating in is the worst thing in the world.

"Me? Uh..." Peeta hesitates, looking trapped. "Well, I-"

"Hey, bread boy!" I hear a yell from down the street.

I turn, to see Johanna Cullen approaching us. She smirks the closer she gets, and I have to keep myself from staring too hard. Because she is dressed in fishnets, black high-tops, and a grunge-steampunk black dress that looks like it belongs in some gothic film about Dracula or something. It has metal tips and edgings all about it, and she has thick, metal cuffs on either wrist. Her hair at least looks combed today, but the black lipstick and inch-thick black eyeliner leave something more to be desired.

She looks like a damn nightmare.

I've never really appreciated _public_ school dress codes, until this moment.

"Well, hel _lo_ Kat."

"Johanna."

"Aw, she knows my name." she sweeps me over, one hip jutting out as she glances over my shoulder, at her cousin. "Isn't that sweet, Peeta?"

"Johanna...," Peeta's voice is cold, and flat, as if warning her against something.

Prim shifts closer to me, and I instinctively put my arm around her shoulder.

"Relax, brainless, it's not like I'm armed." Johanna quips.

"Brainless?" I snap, unsure if she's referring to me, Peeta, Prim, or all three.

She gives a simpering smile, before eyeing Primrose. "Well, don't _you_ look like a drowned rat."

Prim probably still looks messy from the hose incident, but defensive resentment fills my chest.

"And on that note," I cut her off. I intentionally walk around Prim's front, guiding us both past Peeta. "See you, Peet."

"See you," he repeats.

I'm careful not to look over my shoulder, until we are well down the street. I see them, seemingly bickering, outside the Bakery for a time.

Peeta pulls out a key, and goes inside the derelict building. Johanna follows him.

 _Huh._

* * *

I'm writing up my American History paper, like a good little student, when I hear a crash, followed by the padding of tiny pitter-patter feet and loud yowling. It is capped off with Haymitch's cursing. I cringe, before heading to the top of the stairs. I see Primrose at the base, cuddling the ugly mutter, Buttercup, in her arms. Haymitch is still cursing up a storm, but seems to be doing so more at inanimate objects than anything else.

"Everything okay?" I ask, mainly to my sister.

She nods, expression grave.

"The newspaper fell on him," she says, as if this is a full explanation for the chaos I have just heard, before cooing at the cat.

I can hear the beast purring from all the way up here, and can't help but roll my eyes.

"S'all fine, I was going to get a new toaster, anyway!" Haymitch yells, clearly sarcastic.

I sigh, waiting another moment, to be sure Primrose isn't going to be yelled at. Haymitch surprises me, passing Prim and ruffling her hair. He brings the now-severely damaged toaster out of the house, likely to go out with tomorrow morning's recycling. Prim cuddles Buttercup closer, before going into the living room. I hear the television turn on.

Satisfied, more or less, I head back to my room, shutting the door, and putting on some headphones. It always helps to listen to music when doing essays, though it can occasionally backfire.

And backfire, it does, because while going to flip to the next song on my Pandora station, I find myself opening a new window. I'm beginning to type in Peeta Mellark's name in the Google-search before I realize it.

I stop, immediately, chastising myself. Exiting the window, I force myself back to the word document.

Only three more paragraphs to go. Luckily, I had this essay sketched out, during study hall. It's only a one-page assignment.

But, like... who really needs to know all that much about the Boston Tea Party?

I'm on the second-to-last paragraph, referencing my notes, when I find the song currently playing to be too distraction. Again, I open the Pandora bar I have opened, and flip the song around.

I nearly repeat myself, nearly opening up a new window, but just barely stop myself.

 _Take a deep breath,_ I tell myself.

I'm starting to act like a stalker, or at least feel like one- and stalking is _so_ not cool.

The last thing I need is to fail the first American History assignment because of Google.

* * *

Seven-o-clock meeting is way too early. Mainly, because it means being out of the house by six-twenty. Which means it is dark and cold outside.

Oddly, it isn't raining.

I feel half-asleep on my way to the school, and am partially surprised that I haven't crashed or run off the road, by the time I arrive at school.

We are meant to meet with Mr. Blightman this morning, to get our assigned tutors.

I would rather ram my head into a wall.

I make my way through the oddly-deserted hallways, finding the library is still locked, the lights still off inside. Which is frustrating, because this is where Mr. Blightman's meeting is meant to take place. I slump to the floor outside, leaning against the wall, and pulling out my copy of this section's English assignment. We're beginning with, and I quote, _'Something simple.'_ We're reading _The Canterbury Tales,_ or at least certain selections.

I fail to see how this is _simple,_ but the last thing I want is to be recommended for tutoring in English Literature, as well.

The meeting doesn't help my concentration, though. Peeta doesn't come, presumably because he has a zero-period, but it doesn't matter.

Because my assigned tutor for Biology is apparently going to be an also-currently- _not_ -present Finnick Cullen.

* * *

 _I just want to send out a huge thankyou to everyone who's been reading / commenting / kudos-ing this story, I reallyreally appreciate it! I know things are sort of slow, and a lot of interactions are happening through molasses so thankyou for being so patient and lovely and just yeah!_

 _Comments/crit./etc are always appreciated xoxoxo_


	7. Headway (or highway)

_Progress and regress._

 _(Also, Finnick is a jerk.)_

* * *

Delly doesn't meet me outside of my music theory class, just before lunch, and while part of me is concerned, another part is relieved. She has been insisting, ever since I told her who my tutor is, that I can _change him_ and _it could be destiny!_ As if helping me study photosynthesis is akin to bonding some deep spiritual level.

I guess she must have gotten held up in her Printmaking class- funny, since, she had confirmed to me she was only taking said class for 'an easy credit.' I hardly think, with the amount of time she has spent with bandaids on her hands from cutting tools, that it is easy. But that's just me.

The cafeteria is mostly bereft, a few kids from the previous period still making their way out as I make my way to the food. The kids who have come into the room, are gathered at the lunch line.

If there's one thing I'm determined to do, daily, it's get myself a good lunch. Which is why I am taking a bit of each option, however revolting they may appear, on my plate. Part of me wonders if I could get work study by working as a cafeteria lady. Probably not, but it'd be a hell of a lot more convenient.

Though, then again, I'd have to deal with stupid children all day long. So, maybe not such a great idea.

The line is faltering, a few kids ahead of me grumbling as the student currently checking out apparently is a few dollars short. I roll my eyes.

And that's when I feel cool breath on my neck.

"Katniss Everdeen," a foreign male voice hisses.

I slam my elbow back against taut muscles before I think on it too much.

Instead of a grunt of pain, I hear an amused chuckle, and I whip around, eyeing the boy I find behind me.

Tanned skin, bedheaded bronze hair, and hazel-green eyes.

Finnick Odair is harassing me.

"What the hell?" I snap.

He wears a crooked smile that only serves to get more under my skin. "Pleasure to meet you, too."

Ignoring him, I turn to face the line. It still hasn't moved. Not-a-one of my classmates, or cafeteria ladies, has bothered to notice this creep.

"Hello, Finnick," I retort, voice clipped with annoyance.

"I have to say, I've been hearing an _awful_ lot about you," he says, voice honey-smooth. "You're practically on _fire."_

I give him a blank stare and that damned grin of his only grows. He reaches around me, across the metal edging of the tray-slide to grab from the fruit selection. He holds up his pick. I shift, shoving him back and knocking the red fruit from his hand. I watch in disbelief as he quickly catches the apple before it hits the tile floor, with the top of his shoe. Popping it up in the air with a simple flick of his toe, he catches it, one-handed, with enviably casual ease. He grips the fruit, a juicy, ripe Red Delicious apple, before taking a bite out of it and giving a moan of pleasure. He licks the excess juice off of his lips.

No one should look this good eating a stupid apple.

"Nice and juicy. Want a bite?"

I clench my jaw, turning my back on him. The line is beginning to move faster now. Despite my quick retreat, Finnick keeps pace with me.

"You know, Peeta's got a whole bunch of photos with you in them," he contributes, seemingly undeterred despite my indifference. "Whatever happened to all those pretty little girl dresses?"

"I outgrew them."

"You certainly did," he gives an odd sort of purr to the words.

He's persistent, I'll give him that.

I peek over my shoulder, studying his black-and-grey plaid shirt, with the top two buttons undone; and tight jeans that would put most skinny-jeans-wearing girls to shame.

Especially since his bulge is practically popping out. I have to avert my eyes, biting the inside of my cheek. I'm dressed in loose-fitting clothes, at best, and I'm sure, with how little effort I'd put in this morning, that I look like a mess.

"You should see me in my birthday suit," he murmurs, tone conspiratorial.

I glare. He chomps off another bite of apple, smiling at me the whole time, while he chews.

"So, when do we do the niceties and set up a date?"

"What?" I ask, absentmindedly. I'm taking money out from my pocket, thumb and forefinger smoothing circles around the crumpled ten-dollar bill. The line shifts again, and I'm two people away from getting to leave this jerk behind.

"Well, we _are_ going to need to work together," he says, cutting in front of me just as the person before me begins to check out. "Me being your tutor, and all. I'm pretty busy, no offense, but I'm sure I could fit you in."

"And how do us mere _mortals_ pay for the pleasure of you _fitting us in_?" I inquire, tone dripping sarcasm.

"Feisty, aren't we?"

My expression is likely stony, at best.

"Don't worry, it's nothing that'll rob you," he says. He fiddles with the apple as he hands the woman behind the counter exact change. He leans in, invading my space again. His breath grazes my ear; "Secrets."

I can feel my cheeks beginning to flush, hardly resisting a shiver at the coolness of his breath. I carefully avoid looking at Finnick as the cashier rings my total.

"Got any for me, girlie?"

"None that I'd trust you with," I reply, taking my change. We step away so the next person in line can check out. "I'll meet you in the library during zero-period."

He steps in my way, preventing me from leaving the area. "I've got practice in the morning."

"Before seven-thirty?" I ask, not believing him.

He gives a non-committal grunt, which leads me to think even less of his honesty. "How about after school?"

I shake my head. "I have to get my sister."

Finnick sighs, before pulling out a pen from his breast-pocket, and reaching for my hand. I move out of his range, and he holds up his hands, as if in surrender.

"Just want to give you my number, Kat, no need to get all fussy."

"I am _not_ fussy," I manage, my voice strangled by my frustration. "And only my friends call me Kat."

"We're not friends?" he pouts, but it's too exaggerated to be real. "Shame, if we were, you could call me what my friends call _me_ and my-"

"I'm guessing _they_ could give me your number, in that case?"

"Oh, they could give you several. But who's to say they have the one I want to give to _you?"_

I'm about ready to slap him. I slam my tray down on a random, empty table, taking the pen out of his hand. "Do you have a piece of paper?"

He shakes his head, and I roll my eyes.

"Of course not," I mutter. Sliding my backpack off my shoulders, I retrieve a notebook, before ripping one page out of its binding. I scribble down the number of my pay-per-use phone.

"Don't lose that, and don't text or call unless it's _totally necessary_ , otherwise you'll owe me. Big time."

"Will I?" Finnick raises a brow, looking amused. He folds the paper up neatly, putting it into his shirtpocket along with his pen. "I'll tell you what, honey, I'll meet you tomorrow morning and we can swap schedules."

He says something else, but I'm distracted, as I look off to the right over his shoulder. Because Peeta (Mellark) _Cullen_ is headed straight for us.

I see Peeta's brow is furrowed. He clears his throat, and Finnick turns to him, with a million-dollar smile.

"Peet," Finnick smirks, patting Peeta's shoulder as he heads over to their regular table.

My hands tighten on the styrofoam, but I force a smile at my sort-of-almost-friend-slash-aquaintance.

"What'd he want?" Peeta asks, seeming concerned.

Weird, considering Finnick is basically Peeta's brother. For all I know, he was trying to feel me out on Peeta's behalf.

"To know all my secrets." I smile a little, but still the discomfort lingers.

"He'll have to get in line, huh?" Peeta's smile seems too tight, too, despite his joking tone.

I manage a laugh, but it's mostly just a dull exhalation. Glancing over to my usual table, I see that Delly and Angela have yet to make an appearance there.

"Want to sit with us?" Peeta asks.

I half-wonder if I'm not completely transparent.

He motions to the table where Finnick has plopped down. Madge seems to be studying one of her review books intently, and Johanna seems to be stabbing at (rather than eating) a cup of yogurt. I hesitate, before shaking my head. If Peeta is disappointed or surprised he doesn't let on. I pull out my iPod, popping the headphones in and turning on my music.

Before I'm through the first song, however, there is an announcement over the PA system that the school is being placed on a mandatory lockdown.

We get no explanations as to why.

When Delly and Angela join me, shortly after, Delly is flustered beyond all belief.

She has Google on her phone.

Apparently, there was a dead body found not far from the center of town.

There's been a murder in Forks, Washington.

* * *

Mr. Latier hasn't gotten to class yet. I'm fidgeting in my seat, hardly concealing the fact that I'm gripping my phone to a point of dependency.

I'm half-waiting for a text message (one I know that will not arrive) from my Uncle.

Reassurance isn't really his strong suit.

But I could sure as hell use some, right now.

I know Prim is probably in lockdown, too, but I can't help my concern for her. Is she scared? Is she upset? Does she even have a clue as to what's going on? God, I hope she doesn't. I'm sick with worry, but that's me. I don't want her to be scared, not of anything.

My phone vibrates, and I quickly open the message. It is from my uncle, but it's not the response I want.

He's saying that Prim is taking the bus home, and that Hazelle is going to watch her and the kids at our house. The middle school is sending the kids home, but the high school is still ordered to stay locked.

He's saying that the murder wasn't far from where I'm currently (imprisoned) sitting.

He's saying they might dismiss us, soon, so that they can be sure everyone is as far from the crime scene as possible.

I feel sick, and dizzy, and nervous.

A hand sets on my shoulder, and I jump, alarmed.

The chatter in the classroom slowly brings me back to earth, from my nightmare-daydreaming, and Peeta is looking at me, visibly worried.

"Sorry," I offer, before closing out the message, sliding it back into my bag.

"It's okay," he has rescinded his touch (I can't decide whether I'm grateful or not, for him having done so). He glances at the row of windows, all of which have been shut and locked. I follow his eyes, and see a school security guard walking the perimeter with two of the town's policemen. "I'm freaked out, too."

I nod, watching the men outside as they disappear around the corner, out of our line of sight.

"I'm sorry, you know," he whispers.

I wonder, if I'm not meant to hear it.

"Huh?" I ask, trying to keep my voice as neutral as can be.

He shakes his head. I don't get to question him further, because Mr. Latier decides to show up, after all.

It's only after we've gone over the weekend's assignment, and we are assigned to work with our partners on a lab sheet, that Peeta lets me know where his mind is at.

"I'm sorry, that you had to come back here." his voice sounds even, far more even than is fair. "I really think... maybe you coming here wasn't the right thing, for you."

I don't know what to say to that, so I just look back at my packet, trying to bring the words into focus. I try to ignore that my eyes prickle, ever-so-slightly.

"What is wrong with you?" I finally manage, trying not to choke on my own words.

"I'm just... Kat, I don't think this is a good place for you."

"Why, because you were here first?" I snap. I catch myself, checking to see that my voice hasn't gotten loud enough to be a disruption. I check everyone's expression, and when satisfied, I look back at my confusing acquaintance. "I didn't come back for you, or to torture you, if that's what you're thinking- and, if you expect me to be sorry for you forever-"

"That's not what-"

"I don't care," I hiss, again trying to check myself, to keep my voice in the lower registers. It's a challenge, as I feel my eyes welling, my throat getting increasingly thick, and my frustration bringing my temper to a low simmer. "I'm not staying or going based on _you,_ okay?"

"Obviously," he gives back, his lips turned to a grimace. "Because no one else has anything that they're trying to deal with, or needing support-"

"And I always needed your support? Like you were always around? Like one fucking bag of bread and a check saved us?" I spit back.

Peeta's jaw is clenched, but he doesn't respond.

And I realize, it's because most of our classmates around us are staring. I swallow over a lump in my throat, before turning my gaze to Peeta.

"Everyone has crap to deal with," I say, flatly. "Maybe if you stopped feeling so goddamned sorry for yourself, you'd understand that."

"Funny. That applies pretty well to you, too."

My hands are shaky as I stuff my belongings into my bag, zippering it up. I hear a muffled voice, like Mr. Latier's voice, I suppose, but I'm in such a rush to escape the room, I don't bother to acknowledge it.

I lock myself in a bathroom stall, focusing on my breathing and squeezing my eyes shut, telling myself not to cry.

 _I don't care what Peeta thinks,_ I tell myself. _I don't care, I don't care, I_ _ **do not**_ _care._

* * *

I'm sitting in the office when they say the lockdown is over.

I've never been so grateful for an early dismissal.

I can't say I'm any more wanting to be here, than Peeta is of having me here.

* * *

 _THANKYOUFORREADING! soooo yes. I hope this works and if not I'm sorry, this week has been really nutty for me so please excuse any poor editing/etc. thankyouthankyou if you have any crit or anything I'd love to hear it thankyouuuuu xoxo 3_


	8. Eight, speculate

**_In which, Katniss spends time with people.  
And that is not always her favorite thing._**

* * *

A cool drizzle is tapping the roof above me. The black night is blocked from my window by my ceiling light's yellowy glow, reflecting against the pane like a fascinatingly boring film of my life. The fan-blades may be inactive, but, silhouetted, they cast odd shadows on some portions of the room. It's probably to my own disadvantage how distracting the image reflected upon my computer screen has become. I don't have a lot that's due tomorrow, but I want to finish more, rather than less. It'll be easier, the more I get done tonight, instead of procrastinating and ending up overwhelmed, this coming weekend.

A gust rattles the worn window framing and I pull my ratty sweatshirt tighter around myself.

It's only eight-o'clock, but it feels a lot later.

Prim's Disney channel program echoes out from the living room, drifting up the stairwell and through my doorway. She's only supposed to watch an hour of television, at least that had been my rule with her back in Arizona (mostly because I hadn't wanted to waste electricity), and she'd more than occupied that time limit earlier, with Rory and Vick. But, she has done all her homework, and it'll fill her mind enough where she won't question the early dismissal.

I'll give her some leeway, for tonight.

Besides, it's not like they're about to shut the electric off on us.

At least, I hope they aren't about to do so. I'm not sure about the state of Haymitch's cable bills.

I consider, briefly, bringing it up, but decide against it. I'm not sure what mom's fiance, Phil, is paying our Uncle, but I'm fairly certain it's not enough to make him warm to paying more than what he's getting compensated.

Not that I want him to pay for me, for anything. But I am going to figure out logistics for taking an exam to get a valid license in Washington State.

I don't want to have Haymitch turn any favors around, and use it against me.

I'd rather find a job, but between school and looking after Prim, I haven't managed to locate anything that would pay part-time.

I _could_ always ask Delly, I muse, but I don't want to owe her, either. If she finds me work, it could be worth it.

The scent of Haymitch's attempt at dinner is making me too nervous to salivate; whatever it is my uncle's made, it's smelling burnt as hell. I'm glad I ate my lunch earlier, even if it had looked about as appetizing (and as natural) as a piece of plastic cling-wrap.

My pile of schoolbooks sits in a haphazard mess on the floor, right between some half-emptied boxes. I try to drown out the chatter of Prim's favorite show, with the volume of my music, but it doesn't help my attention span any.

 _Peeta Mellark, Forks WA, 98331._

"Shit," I grumble, holding down the backspace key on my mother's ancient laptop. It glitches, momentarily, the screen and clicker freezing up. The music that had been playing goes silent. I roll my eyes before looking down at the page of notes I had been taking.

The Google-Search bar had been intended to lead to answers to my Music Theory research, not stalker tendencies.

A knock on my door draws my attention away, and I pull my headphones out. As I shift, I accidentally bump a few keys, before shifting my computer to a different angle on the desk. Turning, I realize it's not my sister, but my uncle at the door.

"Hey, sweetheart," Haymitch stands in the doorframe, as if not sure what more to say or do.

Even for Uncle Haymitch, the man looks like a mess.

I'm guessing it has to do with the case, though we haven't breathed a word about any of it to Prim or the kids. Hazelle left maybe a half-hour ago, the noisy trio of Vick, Posy, and Rory in tow. I had wanted to ask where Gale was, but didn't know quite how to frame it. I'm not sure if I'm that sort of friend with him yet, where it's okay to talk to his mom when he's M.I.A. Honestly, I've never had friends good enough for that.

I'm not sure if it's something best friends, even, would do.

Not that Gale's my best friend.

I hardly even know the guy.

With Prim's curiosity possibly pricked by the early dismissal, my uncle and I had been tiptoeing (or, in our case, stomping) around each other before I announced my plans to do homework in my room. Haymitch announced plans to make dinner. Though I certainly still cringe at the thought, I didn't want to spend more time with him than needed, no matter how curious I may be about his case.

I'm not sure which is worse: trying to have a conversation with my uncle, or getting food poisoning.

 _At least the food poisoning has a cure,_ I think with a grimace.

It looks like the case, however, is already on the tip of my uncle's tongue.

"I'm guessing you heard about the murder, huh?"

"Maybe," I reply, more guarded because of the uncertainty of where this conversation is headed.

Haymitch nods, shifts his weight. He seems to be inspecting what I've done with his former 'office.' I haven't done much. At best, I've dusted the curtains and vacuumed the floor; at worst, replaced the dust with unkempt clothing. Haymitch's fingers drum against the wooden molding of the doorframe.

"Catch the guy?" I ask, making sure not to sound too interested.

"Nah." Haymitch shakes his head. "Doubt we will, either. Crime scene team's got reason to think it was an animal attack. The swabs aren't going to be confirmed for a few days, they're doing some tests. But we've got reason to think it was an animal. Gonna get some help from some outside folks, tracking it."

Nodding, I try not to let the idea of this tiny town having a CSI team fascinate me too much. I'm assuming the 'tracker' might be Billy Black, although Gale hadn't mentioned him being a tracker, specifically.

Looking away from my uncle, I glance at my computer screen. Where I have accidentally undid my backspacing and entered Peeta's name into the search engine. There's a link to an article all about his family, bolded, at the top of the page. I quickly slam the laptop shut, before Haymitch's eyes detect too much.

"Not looking at porn, are you?" his gruff voice queries.

I can't help but wrinkle my nose in disdain, my cheeks flushing slightly at the notion.

"Gross," I mutter, refusing to look at Haymitch.

"Need to ask," he barks out a laugh, before pulling away, looking as if he is about to leave. He pauses, though, and catches my eye. "You be careful, all right?"

I cannot help but raise a brow in response.

"I'm always careful," I retort, enunciating the words sharply.

Haymitch glares. "Of course, sweetheart, excuse me for-"

"For feeling concern?" I snort. "How much did Phil give you again to watch-?"

"You watch your mouth, sweetheart."

"Oh, piss off," I spit back. "What, you thought I didn't know about it? Like _you'd_ take us on without incentive."

Haymitch's eyes narrow, before he tosses his head slightly, reaching out and grabbing the door handle.

"Always a pleasure, kid," he gives a sneering salute before slamming my door shut.

I flip the door off, in lieu of his face, and try to swallow the now-pumping adrenaline in my veins. Anger throbs, making it difficult for me to concentrate, and the more I try to focus on my notations for Theory, the harder it is to follow my own loop-de-doop wording.

I finally throw down my pen in frustration, opening the computer back up and testing the mouse out. Groaning when the scroller, again, fails to budge, I hear the quiet _'ding'_ of my phone receiving a message.

I push my chair back, pulling my phone out. Partial embarrassment seeps in with lingering frustration, and I clench my jaw.

Finnick has texted me, asking what I'll be _wearing_ tomorrow morning. He additionally has attached a picture of himself floating on his back in the school's swimming pool. I don't dignify Finnick's message with a response, yet still receive an additional emoji of a winky-face about fifteen minutes later.

When my computer works again, I hesitate, before returning to the window that has Music Theory history pulled up on J-STOR. Rather than exiting the window with links to articles on Peeta's family, however, I find myself bookmarking it, for another time.

Part of me feels guilty.

Another part of me feels guilty pleasure.

I have to quell the latter intrigue, though, when Prim knocks on my door, to call me to dinner.

* * *

My hair is sopping wet, and I just barely have time to braid it as I walk towards the school doors. White, fluorescent lights glow out from behind the brick exterior, and I can't help but feel somewhat grateful for the bright illumination of the school. Especially with such a gloomy exterior casting the world in shadows and slick pavements.

I wipe my feet off on the front matt, grateful that there are less students here, this early. It makes it all much more pleasant, and yet, there is an eery silence to the halls that simultaneously sets me on edge. The library, this time, is opened, and as I give a nod to the head librarian, I glance around, seeing only a handful of other kids here. None of them are the 'tutor' I'm meant to be meeting with.

Of course, I can't really be surprised. I doubt Finnick Cullen considers anyone's schedule but his own.

I set myself up at one of the smaller tables. I'm tucked off to the side, to the right of the reference desk, but still within view of anyone entering. I pull out the week's given selection of _Canterbury Tales,_ rereading a section that I'm _nearly_ -positive will provide the class with a Pop Quiz today.

I hear footsteps approaching my table, only pausing a few feet away. Someone clears their throat, and I glance up.

I immediately go rigid.

Finnick Cullen is shirtless, hair sopping wet, wearing only a speedo.

My feet are practically burning, but I force myself to maintain a straight face, eyes snapping to meet his hazel green. My throat feels too dry to speak, but I clear my own throat, and try to keep my eyes from drifting back down.

"'Lo, there, Girl on Fire," he purrs, a sickeningly perfect smile flashing across his lips. He tosses what I assume is his sports bag on the seat across from me. "I assumed you got my message- I was hoping you'd dress up for me."

I immediately search the room to see if anyone is as shocked as I am.

That seems to be a no- because no one is so much as batting a lash. I turn a glare on the boy across from me, but instead unintentionally panic, because Finnick is setting himself on the table, facing me. One knee (I suspect intentionally) brushes against my arm, and he simply tilts his head.

"Cat got your tongue?" he runs his tongue over his lips, and I can barely keep myself from exploding.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?!"

I receiving a chastising, _"Shh!"_ from the librarian at the desk. I give her an incredulous look. The librarian, in turn, points to the _'Silence in the library!'_ sign mounted above her head.

I grit my teeth, purposely avoiding looking at Finnick. Instead, I begin to rummage through my bag. An odd, calming sensation begins to flush over me, despite myself, flushed cheeks of embarrassment replace the flush of my anger and frustration. I find my rummaging slowly, and I frown to myself, confused about the unintentional switch in demeanor.

"What's the matter, Kat?" Finnick asks, voice annoyingly even.

I avoid looking at him, keeping my expression neutral. I'm having trouble staying angry, and that possibly is more frustrating than anything else.

"Do you find this..." he leans in, lowering his voice and running his tongue across his lower lip. "Distracting?"

I huff, pulling my schedule out and thrusting it in Finnick's face. He seems put off; disappointed, perhaps, that I'm not fawning all over him. Absentminded (or trying too hard, I can't be sure), he stretches back, muscles rippling in display as he leans over and searches through his bag. I find my eyes betraying me, roving over the perfectly sculpted, tanned biceps, pecs, and abs, and-

 _Christ, does he stuff his speedo-?!_

Only to find that he has not just paused in that position, but posed as well. And is visibly enjoying my oversight.

I flush, reaching over and snapping his schedule out of his hands. I find that not only do we have lunch during the same period, but the period of my study hall overlaps with the time he has a free period. When I suggest we get together then, he seems slightly hesitant, although I can't understand why. He agrees, though there is a trace of some form of annoyance there. We agree to meet tomorrow, when I'll be in study hall, and I give him the class number which I'll be in.

He slides off of the table (theatrically, I might add), grinning when he catches a duo of girls across the room practically salivating over him. He throws his gym bag over one shoulder, winking at me.

"See you-"

"Uh, no," I say flatly.

He raises a brow.

I hold out my hand. "You owe me two dollars and fifty cents."

He smirks, but confusion lingers in his expression. "Do I now?"

"Yes. I told you, my phone's for emergencies only."

He actually has the nerve to laugh, really _laugh_ aloud at that, but relents in light of my unyielding scowl.

"Honey, tell you what, I'll break a ten during lunch and get it to you then, hm?"

"Fine," I snap.

I have to take a deep breath not to yell at him again. He turns to walk away.

"And, Finnick," I add, trying not to let myself think too much on how the light hits the tanned glow of his skin. "Maybe some pants, next time?"

He blinks, before looking down, as if he's forgotten. He gives a smirk, before chuckling, and strutting away.

* * *

Peeta is not at lunch today. I mean to be focusing on Delly's upcoming plans, really, I do. She wants us all to go to the beach before the weather gets (and I quote) " _too nasty"_ to enjoy it. Personally, the weather is a hell of a lot nastier than I'd like it to be before going to the beach. Apparently, no one who has grown up here sees a problem with going to a beach in early September, when the air is about as welcoming as a thunderstorm. I can only hope the water isn't ice cold, although, I've never really been to a proper beach at all.

But I really couldn't care less about going to the beach, although, it is nice to have plans- the thing is, I'm preoccupied by Peeta. Or, more importantly, what I'd said to him yesterday.

And now, there's a wild animal, and if what Delly and Angela have told me is true, then Peeta might be hiking today and tomorrow, for therapy, and there's a wild animal and _what if he should get hurt?!_

I try to tell myself I don't care, but it's weighing heavily on me. I hope to distract myself, with the conversation of my friends, but even that does little to get the Cullens out of my mind.

"Is Madge going to come with us!?" Delly asks Thom, expectantly. "I've got my mom's truck for the weekend, so it can fit up to eight with the back-back-seat up!"

"Uh, she wasn't sure," Thom mumbles, glancing over at the Cullen's table.

My eyes follow his sight, and I see Madge and Finnick seemingly in deep conversation. Johanna, who sits with her back to us, appears to be reading. I quickly move my focus to my food, trying to ignore the pit in the bottom of my stomach, which food can't fill.

I feel guilty. I feel guilty for yelling at Peeta. Guilty for being so childish, when I know that he's been through something awful. But part of me is still angry; part of my hopes he feels guilty, too, for what he's said.

Saying he wishes I hadn't moved here, saying that I'm selfish.

Granted, I called him that, too, really, but... I sigh slightly, glancing up and grateful for Delly's perpetual conversations.

"Kat, you'll come, right?!"

"Maybe," I give a tentative smile. "Haymitch is a little worked up, with everything-"

"Oh!" Delly practically chokes herself on her mouthful of mac'n'cheese, swallowing heavily and clapping her hands. "My mom texted me that your Uncle made an announcement about the murder!"

She sounds so cheerful, it's almost concerning. I wonder if my friend might not be a little sick in the head. I swallow a forkful of rice, not wanting to give any response.

"Apparently," Delly's voice turns down as low as it can go; her best attempt at a conspiratorial whisper, I suspect. "It was Mr. Ripper."

Between Angela, Thom, and Ben, there is a mixed display of shock, sadness, and fear on their faces.

"Who?" I ask, trying not to sound disrespectful- but I don't know the man, and (no offense) hardly have a reason to connect the name with any sort of emotion.

Delly purses her lips, looking down at her tray. I don't know if it's embarrassment, or sadness, or what, but it doesn't keep her tone from sounding anything less than gossipy.

"He worked out near the shore," Angela offers, voice slightly unsteady. "He was a little odd, but..."

I consider the facts, that, if he worked closer to the outskirts of town, that it was rather 'odd' that he would have been close to the high school at his time of death. I don't say anything, though, just let the words settle on them all.

"Oh," I finally respond, before returning to my food.

A few little snippets, like memories of Mr. Ripper in town trying to sell his catches to locals, or trying to hunt in town, on other people's properties come out. I have a feeling the animal attack happened because he was hunting something, or somewhere, he wasn't supposed to be. A chill runs up my spine, and I look towards the lunchroom windows, grateful that the school is closed campus for the next week.

Whatever animal that attacked Mr. Ripper, I hope it's lone gone, or long dead.

An odd thing happens, towards the end of lunch.

Madge comes over, smiling sweetly, and hands me my money, on Finnick's behalf. Peeta's youngest cousin doesn't talk a lot, which I appreciate, but the few times she does, she seems to have everyone's rapt attention. She's actually got a bit of a sarcastic side, which is surprising. I'm not sure if everyone gets the subtle jokes she tells. Everyone laughs, sure, at certain quips, but I get the feeling they're only doing it out of some sort of compulsion. It's as if they feel they have to humor her. It's... strange, to say the least. I guess, since Thom (according to Delly) has such a crush on Madge, that they're all trying to make her feel welcomed.

When the bell rings, as I bring my empty tray to the garbage, she catches up with me. She puts a hand on my elbow, and locks those off-blue eyes with my own.

"Don't worry about Peeta," she says, voice musically soft, so that only I can hear. "You don't want to be his friend, anyway."

I frown, my jaw clenching. "I don't think that's your business."

Her mouth hangs opened, eyes blinking and widening as I pull away.

"Tell him to grow some balls, or whatever," I add, before pushing past her.

 _Damn Peeta,_ I think. _Sending your **cousin** to talk to me?_

* * *

 ** _[bit shorter, oops.]_**

 ** _BIG SHOUT OUT TO JANE AND JAY AND FINNICKO-LOVES-ANNIEC AND TO EVERYONE WHO HAS COMMENTED/SUBSCRIBED/ETC. ILY GUYS THANK YOU FOR BEARING WITH MEE!_**  
 ** _this week and the week previous have been nutty lately and promise to continue to be, so if there are any grammar/other errors let me know! comments/crit./etc. are always lovely! hope you enjoyed your holidays and have a beauteous last couple of days in 2015! xoxo_**


	9. It's only paranoia (if it isn't true)

_**Saturdays suck, sometimes.**_

 _ **(Or, weird things happen at the beach and Katniss panics about her sister.)**_

* * *

Strange dreams taunt me for the next two nights. In them, there is a constant undertone of fear- fear for myself, perhaps, but fear of Peeta being torn apart by whatever animal had killed Mr. Ripper. Fear of a killer who morphs between vicious monster, venom dripping from his jaw, and a human, slathered in blood. The human form lacks specifics, but blond strands alternate with crimson.

In one dream, Gale Black tries to protect me from the terrifying creature. In a targeted blunder, though, Gale shoots Peeta- and proceeds to take his head. Only the head shrieks and growls with sounds I have never heard.

I wake up, expecting to be enveloped in the bushes, hidden, or to find myself bloody with cuts and bruises.

Instead, the only thing I ever find is tears on my own cheeks, and a chillier room than I have ever had to get used to.

On the third night, I wake to my little sister's cries, and quickly rush to comfort her. Curling up once in my arms, she is whimpering and crying. I sing to her, softly, the song my father always sang to both of us.

The meadow song. Prim's favorite.

 _Deep in the meadow, under the willow…_

She half-sings with me, her voice choked and groggy.

When Primrose finally calms, I tuck her back into bed, waiting until she falls asleep to leave her side. I turn, starting when I see Uncle Haymitch in the doorway.

A curious expression is on his face, softer than he usually wears. When he catches me watching him, he turns, and heads back to his room. He shuts his door, and I can hear him snoring not long after.

I try to fall asleep, similarly, but dreams will not come. When I close my eyes, all that I can see is the bloody head from my nightmares. I stare at my ceiling, trying to compel myself into slumber.

My efforts fail, and I'm forced to admit defeat. Instead of laying there and trying to count more sheep, I find myself heading downstairs, pouring milk into a saucepan. I warm it over a low flame, like I did for my little sister so many times, after our dad died. Staring out at the black night, I can't help but feel a little put off that the clouds block the stars and moon. I always love how the galaxy pricks through the dark sky. In the desert, when it was this time night, I always felt as if I could just reach up and touch the silvery stars.

Make a collection (and sell them off for a good price).

Streetlamps from the front of the house leak yellow beams in some spaces in Haymitch's backyard. I'm staring blankly, studying the stark contrast between dark and darker forms, when I see what looks to be a moving shadow out beyond the treeline. Immediately tensing, I throw on the backyard floodlight.

For just a flicker of a second, I could swear I see Peeta Cullen there.

But I blink, and the image is gone. I stare out the back door, eyes studying the treeline's perimeter intently. I must stare for nearly ten minutes, straight, before I satisfy myself that my tired mind must be playing tricks on me.

Peeta is on a retreat somewhere on the other side of the state, I remind myself.

 _"I hope you're going to help Peeta catch up,"_ I had quipped one day, to Finnick.

He had, again, bothered me into setting up a tutor session during our shared lunch period. I'm not sure if he's just concerned about his reputation, where his guidance counselors are concerned, or he just enjoys irritating me; either way, we had figured out a few more times to get together during the week.

And Finnick had mentioned, in response to my comment, that Peeta is on a retreat. Apparently, he had a 'trigger' following a news report about the murder.

I told him I didn't care. Finnick had given a chuckle, before diving in and talking about respiration.

I heave a sigh, before pouring my cup of warm milk.

If they don't confirm that the animal has been shot or has left the area, I don't know what I'm going to do with myself.

* * *

Finnick Cullen is an extremely bizarre human being.

I'd already decided this the first time I met him, and the more I see him, the more confused I become. He is easily one of the most gifted students- and one of the best tutors I could have hoped for. When immersed in the material, he easily gives answers, or tips on how to retain the information. He does not even need to look at the study material to give me pop quizzes, or to know how to help me with the study packets which typically would take me, alone, hours.

He's a wonderful tutor.

He just is also a horrific flirt with no boundaries.

Luckily, he has kept his pants on the past few times I've seen him. Shirt, too. But, he did slide me a piece of paper with another phone number to contact him at, 'in case I decide to shut that other one off.' He gave a quick wink and a dazzling smile that I'm sure would seduce half the known world.

When I glare at him, Finnick admits to me that it's the Cullen's house number, and over weekends that's the best way to reach him.

At the end of the day on Friday, I treat myself and Prim to a local ice cream place. Admittedly, I am in part checking out what stores are hiring. A few 'help wanted' signs show potential, and when I gather applications and inquiries about hours, I'm satisfied enough to call it a day.

Prim has a birthday party tomorrow afternoon, and Haymitch has promised to pick her up at five-o'clock, since I'm going to possibly still be out with Delly and the group of friends.

My dear friend said the name of the beach, and it's about an hour outside of forks. The beach plans make me nervous, even more so when Delly explains to me not to wear a regular bathing suit, but a wetsuit.

As if everyone has a wetsuit.

 _"I'm not sure if Thom told Madge yet,"_ Delly had mentioned, but shrugs it off.

I'm still not sure if Thom actually likes Peeta's cousin as much as Delly insists he does. When they have sat at the same lunch table, Thom barely says 'hello' or 'goodbye' to the fourteen-year-old.

 _Weird._

I've already decided I'll probably hang out on the beach and watch my friends shiver themselves silly.

Unless, of course, they all realize how silly it is to swim when there are supposed to me thunderstorms all this weekend.

Prim sleeps in my bed, on Friday night, thankfully having only sweet dreams. I sing her to sleep, glad for the warmth of her company as I read a passage from an old book, weather-worn and dogeared to shreds.

My dad had intended to go to school for literature, originally, but ended up working instead of going to college.

It never had lessened his love for reading, and so he snatched up any abandoned books he could. I never really have had much time to become much of a bookworm, but I've found that reading tends to ease my mind. I'd found this book in a donation pile a few weeks before we left Arizona. I highly doubt that Jane Austen would have been dad's cup of tea, it's enough to take my mind off of any impending nightmares.

The couple in it are undergoing a bizarre sort of courtship, one that reminds me despite myself of Peeta and myself.

Not that we are courting.

I remind myself that he hates me, and that I am angry with him. But, still.

I put the book aside, pulling the covers up over my head.

I sleep the whole night through, in a blank slumber.

* * *

Primrose is dressed in a lovely bubblegum-pink dress, her shoes tidy as can be. She is bouncing up and down in the passenger's seat of my car. I'd pulled together a measly twenty-dollar gift certificate to some nail salon in the area, and cringe slightly when I think that I hadn't been able to afford to buy a nice card in addition. Prim insisted that she could make one and, true to her word, she had crafted a lovely one. A simple square, folded in half, with flowers and the birthday girl's name in script, has been slipped into in the gift bag for her friend.

I park my car up in front of the Stanley's Cookery, seeing a gaggle of teenaged girls just inside the doorway. I unbuckle my seatbelt, about to walk my sister to the door.

"I don't need you to, Katniss!" Prim insists, giving me a pleading sort of look.

I frown at her. "Prim, I'm not letting you go in there. I don't see any adults with them."

"Katniss, please?" Prim begs. "It's right there!"

I narrow my gaze, but sigh. "Fine, but I'm not leaving until I see an adult is in there with ou guys."

Prim groans, but relents.

I hand her my cell phone, telling her to call Haymitch at the station if anything comes up.

"Or Delly!" I add. "Her number's in there, if you need me."

She's in such a rush to escape to the festivities that my little sister simply shrugs my words off. I swallow a potentially paranoid explanation, forcing a smile as Prim shuts the car door.

A parent, a middle-aged woman with a skunk-streak in her obviously-dyed hair comes and waves at me from the doorway.

I hesitate, still, but run through the itinerary. They're doing lunch at the restaurant, then going to Missy or Mickey's house, just around the corner, to watch some new tweeny-bopper movie that Prim is _soooo excited for!_ Admitting there's really little that could possibly 'get' Primrose between here and there, I pull out of the spot, driving back to Haymitch's house.

Gnawing anxiety continues to agitate my mind, but I push it aside, sliding some extra cash into my mom's ancient leather shoulderbag. I check around the house, making sure I have everything before heading out front, to wait on the front stoop. I'm nervous, to not have my cell phone, but it's better if Primrose has it.

And she can still contact me, through Delly, so…

I sigh heavily, cringing as a light drizzle hazes the street thoroughly. I hear the engine of Mrs. Stanley's truck, before I see it round the bend. I force a pleasant smile, standing and waving awkwardly at the vehicle. Pulling up out front, Delly rolls down the window, a massive smile on her face.

"Kat!" she exclaims. "I'm so glad you're coming! Climb in the back-back, everyone else's already in!"

I nod, crawling around the two other rows before plopping in the last set of seating- right next to Madge Cullen.

She gives me a small smile, as the car starts up again. "Hey."

"Hey," I reply, before looking out the window.

The others up front seem to have more to say, but being all the way in the back, it's an awkward ride of me having to ask things to be repeated; eventually I give up, and Madge and I just sit here in silence.

It's a longer ride than I realized, and with Delly's lead foot, I'm a wreck of worrying that we'll get a ticket.

It's not until we're approaching a sign for La Push that I realize Delly's 'surprise' is to go to an entirely different location than she'd originally said.

"Delly, I thought we were going somewhere else?" Madge's voice is surprisingly firm, and loud, as she pipes up.

"What?" I hear Delly yell back.

"This isn't where you said we were going!" Madge replies.

I glance at Peeta's cousin, seeing an odd look of dread on her face.

Madge looks as if she's going to be sick.

"Is that okay?!" Delly chirps, too brightly.

Madge opens her mouth a moment, before I notice her glance warily at me. I frown back at her, and she looks out the window. Her hands ball the fabric of her khaki pants, and she shakes her head.

"It's fine."

"What?" Delly yells, as she pulls in at First Beach.

I notice a string of motels and fancy-looking resort off above the Beach. I also notice a few Quileute teenagers hanging around.

As we exit the truck, I see not only are they Quileute kids, but one happens to be a friend of mine.

Well, sort of.

"Hey, Catnip," Gale calls, coming over from his group of friends. Something in his expression falters, ches, and when he looks over my shoulder.

I follow Gale's narrowed gaze, to see he is glaring at Madge. The girl is standing, with her arms crossed, following our group of friends closely, and not looking at the other teenagers in the area.

A cold wind blows, and I pull my coat tighter around my shoulders.

"You're friends with her?" Gale asks, tone biting.

I glance at him, frowning back. "Yeah."

Gale's jaw clenches.

"Why?" I ask, curious about this reaction.

Gale is still watching the blonde intently, his nose wrinkling.

"Just don't normally let that kind of trash around here."

I'm shocked at his words, and glare at him.

Madge obviously doesn't want to be here, either, but what exactly is Gale's problem?

"Well, she's my friend," I snap. "And my friends wanted to come to the beach here, so get over it."

I turn my back on Gale, irritated when I hear his footsteps following me. Delly has pulled out a boogie-board, and she and Darius, oblivious to Madge's visible discomfort, are already running towards the waves. Angela and Thom are testing the water out a few feet away, with Ben, laughing and talking quietly.

I approach Madge, seeing a few other local teens are similarly eyeing Peeta's cousin. I stand next to her, watching the water. Madge glances at me, before seeing my companion and narrowing her eyes.

"I thought we told your family to stay out of here," Gale says, tone flat.

Madge's lips press into a thin, pink line, Out of the corner of my eye, I see Angela pause, watching the scene. Gale makes an intimidating figure, arms crossed, muscles on display; with a cold glance in my direction, as well, he steps in front of Madge, invading her personal space.

"What's your problem?" I demand. "She's not doing anything wrong."

"Yeah, and it's gonna stay that way as long as she gets lost."

"Gale," I snap, stepping between them. "We came here as a group, if you have a problem with it, get the hell over it."

"Her family's not welcome here." Gale's eyes flicker to mine.

"Why? It's a _beach,_ Gale, there's no sign saying 'Cullens keep out' and you can't just-"

"They've got all that damn property up on their fancy-ass hill, let them stay there and rot."

"I came here with my friends," Madge interjects, standing her ground. "They wanted to swim. If you want to follow me around the whole time I'm here, like a lost _dog,_ be my guest."

An expression of repulsion accompanies a gust of wind, and Gale remains where he is. Madge simply glares in response, and I'm stuck in between them, trying to understand why, out of all the people in Forks, Gale has to take issue with a fourteen-year-old girl.

"Fine," Gale says, after a few minutes of the stand-off. He takes a few steps back, but still keeps his eyes on the blonde.

Angela, Thom, and Ben come over, asking if everything is all right. Not knowing what to say, I shrug it off.

Madge and I spend the day sitting on the rocky soil, Gale a bizarre sentry, standing at our backs.

When Delly and Darius finally emerge, ruddy-cheeked and goosebump-racked, Angela suggests, neutrally that we head back home.

By this point, the wind has died down, but the distinctive angle of the sun signals it will soon be gone. I turn to Gale, glaring at him, as the rest of my friends head back to the car.

"I don't know what your problem is with the Cullens, Gale," I begin. "But whatever it is, Madge isn't your problem."

Gale stares at me for a long time, before ultimately giving a humorless laugh and shaking his head.

"Don't get too close with any of them," he warns, shifting to check as the group gathers back into the truck.

Delly calls me, but Gale stops me with a hand on my arm.

I pull myself out of his grasp, shoving him back for good measure. "Don't tell me what to do."

"Kat-"

"Oh, shut up," I snap, walking quickly to get to the truck, before Gale can say anything else.

* * *

My foot is tapping the floor of the car, impatience and anxiety surging despite myself.

 _It's fine, Katniss,_ I try to tell myself. It might be nearing eight-o'clock but I know the girls were supposed to be done at five, and Prim probably called Haymitch, or is at the birthday girl's house still.

But, god, how do I repay the mother if she's still watching my little sister?

I can feel Madge's eyes on me, and purposely keep my gaze on the window. We had stopped by Angela's house, and ended up staying much longer than I would have anticipated because her parents insisted we eat something, and have some hot cocoa.

I hadn't made things better for myself, by asking Delly (repeatedly) if my little sister had called her phone yet.

She hadn't.

It's nearing eight-o'clock, though, and the hot chocolate is roiling in my stomach, my palms sweating. A cold hand presses against my wrist, and I flinch, blinking up at Madge.

"Are you okay?" she asks, keeping her voice quiet.

Delly and Ben, with Darius accompanying them, are belting out the words to some pop song on the radio. It luckily is entertaining everyone enough to distract them from my apparent anxiety attack.

I shrug, before looking down. Madge's hand is still on my wrist and I'm not quite sure what to do with it.

"What was that all about, by the way?" I ask, uncertain if it's appropriate to ask or not.

Madge laughs, lightly, but when I look at her, it doesn't carry to her eyes. "Long story."

I accept this answer, for now, still feeling a bit angry with Gale for talking to her that way.

"My sister's supposed to have been home hours ago, and I'm not sure if Haymitch picked her up," I finally blurt out.

Madge nods, seeming to understand. "I'm sure it'll be okay."

She gives a small, reassuring smile. I nod, but look away again. We pull up in front of my house, and I note with trepidation that no lights are shining from inside.

I remember having the birthday girl's mother's number in my pocket, and as I walk in the front door, having forced a happy expression on my face, I grapple to find the phone number in my bag's pocket.

Surely enough, the house is deadly silent, and I rush to Haymitch's house phone.

I dial the number of the girl's mother, only to be informed that one of the other moms dropped her off at the house hours ago.

I feel a tightness in my chest, and as I say 'thank you' and hang up, I yell out Primrose's name.

No avail.

Panic builds, and I try to remember Haymitch's number.

Rustling through my bag, the only number I can find is the Cullen's house phone, and without thinking I dial it.

"Hello?" an unfamiliar female voice answers.

 _Why did I call this number?!_ I can't quite understand, but lacking Haymitch's station number, I panic and ask for Peeta or Finnick.

"They're not home right now, dear," an aggravatingly long pause. "May I ask who this is?"

"Kat Everdeen- they're not home?"

"No, but I can take a message-"

I slam the phone down, running to the front door and grabbing my car keys.

 _Why did I think calling that number would help?!_

A half-assed thought makes me run next door, asking if they've seen Prim. The neighbor seems to be alarmed by my half-shrieking inquest, but says he thinks he saw my sister being dropped off at around five-thirty, and saw Haymitch come and go about an hour ago. Without thinking to say 'thanks,' I run to my car, starting up the engine and speeding to the police station.

Prim is missing.

Prim is missing, and I need to find her, and before I get in the front door, I'm in tears.

"Katniss!" I hear the familiar tone, and relief startles me from crying.

 _Prim isn't missing, Prim isn't missing,_ I chant to myself.

She is wrapping her arms around me.

"Hello, sweetheart," I hear from across the room.

Haymitch's brow is raised, at my display of affection.

"Rough day?"

* * *

 ** _thankyouforreading! i hope you enjoy and don't hate meee! any comments/crits/etc. are appreciated! thankyou! xoxo_**


	10. Pork fried nothing

**_In which: Chinese food._**

 ** _(super-short one, I hope you'll forgive me!)_**

* * *

"Do we still have chicken fingers in the freezer?" Primrose's voice sounds out next to me, drawing my attention from intense study of the darkened night outside the cab of our truck.

"I think so," I reply.

Silence resettles, as I stop at a traffic light. Windshield wipers streak across linger heavily plopping droplets from earlier. Streetlights and rear taillights alike become obscured. My whole body is tensed, and I make sure to drive slowly.

Words catch in my throat, before I can release them.

I want to ask why my sister didn't call Delly, like I told her to.

 _"You called_ ** _Haymitch_** _?!"_ I had asked, ignoring my uncle and his staff.

 _"I didn't want you to come all the way home."_

 _"_ ** _Haymitch_** _, though?!"_

 _"Woah, now, girly."_ My uncle's deputy sheriff, Deputy Chaff, had mocked waving smoke away from my ears. _"Wrong department to set on fire."_

It's the second time this week that someone's mentioned me being on fire. I'm sick and tired of it. But explosions had to wait. I hadn't wanted to say anything in front of Prim.

"Could we order Chinese food?" Prim asks, as I turn down our street.

I hesitate, trying to recall what dwindling funds still reside in my purse. I think I've got five bucks. That would probably only cover the deliveryman's tip, at best.

"Let's see what we have in the house first," I counter.

"Okay."

As I turn into Haymitch's driveway, the headlights illuminate a foreign silver vehicle pulled up out front. On the steps of our completely darkened house, a figure sits.

I keep the headlights on as I put the car into park.

"Who's that?!" Prim inquires, sounding more intrigued than nervous.

I narrow my eyes, attempting to make out the identity of our apparent visitor.

"Katniss?"

Curly blonde hair, light skin, and blue eyes.

"It's Peeta," I tell my sister, unbuckling my seatbelt and cutting the engine.

Peeta Cullen is sitting on our front stoop.

He's sitting out in the rain. He wears a raincoat, but without its hood pulled up. His hair is probably a damp mop. He's lucky there is only a quiet drizzle.

"Stay here," I tell Prim, sliding out. I zip up my jacket, tightening my windbreaker's strings, so the hood clings around my cheeks.

As I approach him, Peeta stands, tucking his hands into his coat.

I ought to say, _"How are you?"_ or, _"Sorry for worrying you over nothing."_

"What're you doing here?" comes out of my lips, instead.

"You called," he replies, giving an indifferent shrug.

"I didn't mean to."

"Right," Peeta returns, voice flat. "Look, Effie said you sounded panicked-"

"Who's Effie?"

"Hi, Peeta," Primrose comes to stand next to me, giving a shy wave. She's holding her umbrella above herself, and attempts to lift it above my head.

"Hey, Prim." Peeta gives an unfairly warm smile to my sister. "I like your dress."

"Thank you," Prim murmurs. "I had a birthday party, earlier."

"I'm sure everyone was jealous," Peeta says, giving such a sincere smile that I nearly want to smack him.

"Yeah," Prim shifts, before looking between him and me. "Is Peeta getting Chinese with us?"

"Prim," I give my sister a look.

"Please? Peeta, would you want to stay for Chinese?"

I glare, but Prim is just smiling encouragingly at Peeta.

Not only has my darling sister just weaseled her way into a Chinese food dinner, but managed to make it awkward for me to uninvite my classmate.

I'm thinking no Disney channel or computer time for her. For the rest of the weekend.

Peeta, meanwhile, is looking at me.

"I'm sure he's got other things to do," I say flatly. "You're probably tired from your retreat, right?"

Peeta gives a slight shrug.

We're all distracted by a gradual change in the weather, from steady drizzle to quicker, smaller raindrops. Prim nudges me and I sigh, walking around Peeta and heading for the door. After unlocking it, Prim quickly shakes off her umbrella, before heading inside. I turn, as I stand in the doorway, and see Peeta standing there, looking so lost. Part of me wants for him to get in his shiny car and go away, but the other feels some semblance of _guilt_ , I suppose it is.

Here he is, back from having to go across the state to get some peace of mind, and I'm wary of even letting him in my house.

 _Haymitch's house,_ I remind myself.

I grit my teeth. "Are you coming?"

Peeta's shoulders hunch up, as if in defense, before following me indoors. He hangs his coat on the coat-hook, hooking his next to mine as his boots get kicked next to my own.

Prim already has the house phone glued to her ear, telling the order to the store, on the other line. I cringe, before running to my room. Rummaging through my drawers and haphazardly-still-unpacked cardboard boxes, I come out with a grand total of twenty dollars and feel my stomach twist in knots.

I speed downstairs. Peeta, who has apparently been waiting at the base of the stairs, follows me into the kitchen. I wave my hands at Prim, for her to stop- just as she hangs up the phone.

Peeta and Prim both stare at me as if I have six heads.

"Call them back and cancel the order!" I exclaim.

"Why?" Prim frowns, audibly disappointed.

"I-" I stop myself, glancing uncertainly at Peeta. "Just do it, okay?"

"But..." Prim's brow puckers, but she sighs, before beginning to dial up the number.

I think my sister understands, but even so, there's a certain level of guilt at not being able to give her what she wants.

"It's fine, Kat," Peeta voices from behind me. I turn, sizing my 'friend' (ish) up. "I can pay."

Immediately, I can feel my cheeks flush slightly.

"I can pay," I lie, stubbornly. My pride won't let my cash shortage get in the way, I guess.

"You can pay me back another time," Peeta murmurs. I think it's quiet enough that Prim wouldn't hear, but it's all I can do not to snap for him to stuff his own charity. "Prim, don't cancel the order. I'll pay."

Prim all too happily hangs up the phone, before grinning widely at Peeta.

"Really?!"

"Yup," Peeta nods, before moving into the kitchen and asking where the dishes are.

He and Prim go about setting the table, getting drinks together. I stand in the doorway, still, watching the scene with confusion. When the doorbell rings about a forty-five minutes later, Peeta dutifully pays, not even letting me give the tip.

I can only hope he's not a tip-stiffer.

I don't want to set a bad precedence with Hong Kong Diner's delivery drivers.

Prim and I immediately dive in, scoops mountains of broccoli and chicken, pork fried rice, and an extra side of white rice. I'm so busy wolfing down my food, that I hardly notice Peeta's practically non-existent food consumption. I'm pretty sure he's doing what Prim used to do when she was really little: pushing food from one side to the other, without actually eating a single bite.

"Aren't you hungry?" I ask Peeta.

"Sort of ate a few hours ago," he admits. "Effie made me dinner when we got back."

A biting response wants to ask why he bothered letting himself get invited inside if he wasn't even hungry.

"Who's Effie?" Prim repeats my question from earlier.

"My aunt," Peeta replies evenly.

"Oh." Prim chews her food thoughtfully. "Does she live with you?"

"I live with her, actually," Peeta explains. "With her and my uncle, and their kids."

"You don't live with your mom and dad?"

"Prim," I whisper, shaking my head when my sister looks at me.

"It's fine," Peeta tells me, tone surprisingly gentle. "My mom and dad aren't around anymore."

"Like mom and Phil?" Prim tilts her head to the side. "Did they go abroad, too?"

"No." Peeta's hand tightens on his fork. He doesn't look up for a time. "They passed away."

Prim's eyes grow wide. She pushes back her chair, moving around to Peeta's side of the table and giving him a hug. My lips hang opened, a strange mixture of irritation and _(almost)_ jealousy forming a strange knot in my stomach. I look back at my food.

Eventually, Peeta pats Prim's back, thanking her softly before she sits back down at the table.

We eat, mostly, now, in silence.

"Here!" Prim exclaims, when Peeta and I are mostly finished. The fortune cookies are dumped out from the plastic delivery bag. "It's dessert!"

She holds a cookie out to Peeta, who gives a small smile before opening his up. He easily peels apart the plastic wrapping, then cracks the hard shell in half. Removing the slip from inside the shards of cookie, Peeta smirks.

"What's it say?" Prim inquires, eagerly.

I stuff another helping of chicken and broccoli into my mouth.

 _"You will be hungry again in one hour,_ " he reads.

Something akin to a grimace flickers past on his face, before another easy smile breaks across his lips. He crumbles the fortune slip, tossing it on top of his mostly-untouched food. Peeta is about to toss his cookie aside, but Prim grasps, grabbing his wrist.

"You have to eat it!" she half-yells.

Peeta hesitates, looking over at me.

"It's our rule," I share, beginning to unwrap my own fortune cookie.

"It's good luck!" Prim finishes.

"Ah," Peeta nods, lifting some bits to his lips. "In that case."

He makes a quick job of chewing up the cookie, and Prim looks to me.

I clear my throat, before reading my fortune out.

 _"Reach for the moon, and you might land among the stars."_

I roll my eyes. It's one of my least favorite quotes. I can't say how many times I saw it quoted in the yearbook at my old school.

"Not even logistically accurate," Peeta comments, voicing my own thoughts.

I glance at him, to see he is grinning. I give a small smile in response, before nibbling on my own fortune cookie.

"What do you mean?" Prim inquires.

"No stars are between us and the moon," Peeta replies. He motions to Prim's cookie and she quickly pulls it opened.

 _"Love because it is the only truest_ _adventure,"_ Prim reads, smiling dopily.

I remember her asking me, about becoming Rory's girlfriend, and cringe instinctively. I rise, beginning to collect plates and dishes, while Prim cleans her plate of any remaining rice or chicken. I hear wood scrape the floor, and heavy footsteps behind me as Peeta follows me over to the garbage disposal. We exist in a silent harmony for a time, an awkward one that makes me avoid looking at him as he hands me dirty dishes. I begin to load the dishwasher, grateful when I see we have no more powder under the sink.

"Hey, Prim, could you get some dishwasher detergent from downstairs?" I ask, grateful when she quickly heads into the basement to get it. I listen to her retreating footsteps, before turning to Peeta. "Sorry."

He blinks at me, before frowning. "What for?"

"For..." I trail off, not sure what, exactly, that I should be apologizing for. "I'm sorry for worrying you."

"I was just surprised." Peeta's hands are stuffed into his trouser pockets, and he rests against the counter-top.

"Yeah," I offer, hesitating as I hear Prim coming back up the stairs. "Thank you, though. For coming."

"Sure," Peeta shrugs. His lips tug into a small smile. "Hey, maybe I'll need to call you to buy me Chinese food sometime."

I laugh, looking away and trying to think of a way to blurt out everything in the few minutes we have. Before I can, though, Prim is back in the room with us, and Peeta's phone is ringing. Frowning at the screen, Peeta quickly makes his goodbyes, heading for the door.

Prim heads upstairs, as I listen to Peeta's car pull away.

And I'm left with a pack of pork fried nothing.

* * *

 ** _thankyouforreading! I hope you're not disappointed, please let me know of any errors or suggestions._**

 ** _The next chapter *MAY* be from Peeta's POV because reasons (I've only done one one-shot for him so I'm very tentative about that) just to give some insight from his side of the story._**

 ** _pleaseplease let me know what you think xoxo_**


	11. Chapter 11: Peeta

_Brief change of view: in which, Peeta goes home, to the Cullen household._

* * *

 ***Peeta POV***

The car follows the road closely, spare rain collected throughout the day shattering out against the moonlight like glass shards. The phone buzzes in the dashboard cup-holder, the third time in the past ten minutes. It seems to continue for hours, before dying off. It whines once more, a notification at the missed call, before going still.

All at once, the voices begin, the gasping my own but the words foreign. A sheen clings to the memory of her, and my throat feels on fire. The flesh, the hot coursing of her blood, _the sweet scent of her-_

"My name is Peeta Mellark," the mantra Aurelius taught me fumbles out from my lips. "Also called Peeta Cullen."

Barely keeping myself steadying against the onslaught, I swerve myself back into the proper lane, grateful that there had been no one else around.

"I'm seventeen years old."

Only the thought doesn't finish quite there. Because 'sort of' always amends that part of the statement.

 _I don't want to hurt anyone,_ goes unsaid aloud.

It's all that fills in my mind.

 _I_ ** _don't_** _want to hurt_ ** _any_** _one._

Just the idea, of something happening... I could never live with myself.

 _(Living isn't really the problem, though, is it, Peeta?)_

Fingers curl tighter about the steering wheel, before the familiar pathway appears. Senses go on autopilot, as if mind and body are two separate entities. After one left turn, a short drive lays itself before me. I cut off to the right, into the family's gravel driveway. The sheen, which sets the roads to glitter, coats the foliage lining the way into slick mirrors.

My housemates all appear to be here, from my quick assessment of the cars parked outside. Times were, I would already be hearing their thoughts, from this distance. Blissful silence is kept, more or less, in my mind. Soundproof glass, installed last winter, likely plays its part.

Aurelius, Effie, Johanna, and Finnick all have their vehicles on the premises. If Katniss has gotten home, Madge must have been home for some time now. It seems they are just waiting on me, then.

My adoptive mother (adoptive aunt, really), should be pleased. Effie always insists we all try to be home for dinnertime, despite there rarely being any meals inside of the house.

Tonight, technically speaking, is my birthday. Effie told me she has a surprise. Johanna asked if it was porn.

I'm surprised Effie manages to keep her wigs on, sometimes.

I set the silver Volvo to park behind Finnick's Jeep.

 _"Entirely impractical!"_ Effie had said, months ago when my adoptive cousin brought home the contraption. _"It doesn't have a_ ** _door,_** _dear, how on Earth is it meant to protect you from the elements?!"_

She had created an entire list of more secure cars, which Finnick had promptly lit with one of Johanna's spare matches.

It's not as if safety ratings are an issue, where our family is concerned.

The heat in the house washes over me, and muffled conversation I can now better perceive to be a heated argument. Indifferent senses merely acknowledge rather than feel the difference in temperature. Wet rubber soles squelch against the floor, as the dampness of my coat makes it hang limp on the doorframe. Despite having hardly stepped closer than a foot to Katniss, I can still smell the scent of her home on my jacket, as well as pants and shirt. I take a moment, to let that sink in.

 _No buffers, and nothing happened._

 _No arms holding you back, and everything is fine._

 _(She must be a lucky girl, then, huh?)_

Wet shoes are barely kicked off before the facets of the argument begin to become clear to me.

The words, though, aren't all I can sense. Madge's jacket smells distinctly of raw, dirty dog.

Instincts make me recoil, and I immediately head in to where the family is gathered.

"How could you be such an fucking moron-?!"

"Johanna, language!" Effie attempts to interject.

"Shut it, wiggy, don't get me started on your sorry ass."

"Don't talk to her that way!" Madge snaps.

"I can talk to whoever I damn well please-"

"Because you always have the best judgement."

"Excuse me, am _I_ the one came home smellin' like a damn mutt?"

"She gets it, Jo," Finnick adds, running a hand through his hair. He shifts in his spot on the corner of the coffee table, meeting Johanna's resentful glare with an impassive expression. "Leave it alone."

Effie wrings her hands, pacing back and forth behind the couch, where Madge is seated.

A flow of calm slowly precipitates through the room, emanating from the bronze-haired boy. It eases the nerves, less potent as it would be with someone with active hormones, but still effective enough. I can see Johanna squirming, clearly trying to fight the relaxation.

"God, Finn, keep it in your pants," the black-haired sprite mutters.

"We just have to figure out where to go from here," Finnick talks over Johanna. He glances over at Dr. Cullen.

"Precisely," Aurelius' even tone helps the group. The conversation pauses, as I come to stand next to my adoptive uncle. Aurelius puts a hand on my shoulder. "Everything all right over there?"

I nod. "Just a misunderstanding."

When I had come in from hunting earlier, Effie had practically been having an aneurysm or something, she was so worked up about Katniss's phone call. I hadn't had much time to explain who Katniss was, or time to grab Finnick or Johanna along with me. I suppose Effie must have explained to the family, but obviously a distraction has so graciously befallen us.

"What's going on?" I ask, glancing over at Madge.

She averts her eyes, the set of her jaw making me assume she must be quite upset. I glance about at my other company, barely resisting the urge to break down the barriers I've built up over the past two years.

"Lil' Madgepie ended up in La Push," Johanna quips, collapsing onto the couch. A decisive crack, and a sudden slump in the area under Jo's weight predictably signals the breaking of the couch.

Effie immediately begins to scold her, earning some spitting comments in retort.

However, the elephant is still in the room, and I frown at Madge.

"You went to La Push?"

Me, perhaps, or even Jo (to challenge the rules), or Finnick (to be an ass), but Madge? Never has _she_ been one to break the rules. Her following Aurelius and Finnick out of the Volturi court had been the closest she ever came, but even that had been with some form of their oversight.

If I hadn't been approved by the Volturi President I doubt I'd be more than a decapitated corpse buried on a mountainside.

Madge meets my eyes, but her face offers no explanation.

"The kids went there, today," Aurelius says evenly. He steps away, checking his phone, before looking towards the front of the house. "The Lahotes and some of the elders have agreed let it go. This time, that is."

I frown at Madge.

"I didn't know they were going there," she murmurs.

I suppose it is intended for me, but Johanna chooses this moment to push herself up, narrowing her eyes. Madge glares in response, before looking back at me.

"They said they were going to the beach," she says, flatly. "They gave a different name, Delly changed the plans last minute."

"Why didn't you persuade them to go somewhere else?"

"I couldn't with your girlfriend there, now could I?" she asks icily, before standing and pushing past me.

The room stills, and I try not to visibly cringe.

"What?" Johanna asks sharply.

Madge sets herself up at the piano, her back to me.

 _It would have come out at some_ _time or another,_ she thinks. My blonde 'sibling' glances over her shoulder momentarily, before she begins to play.

"Peeta?" Aurelius inquires.

I hesitate, turning to face them all only when I feel the tension about ready to take corporeal form and bite me in the bum.

"Yes, Peeta, _do_ discuss," Madge murmurs. Her fingers gradually works out a somber, unfamiliar melody. It is slow, haunting, with all deeper tones, few higher pitches interspersed.

She and I have had this conversation, after the day I attempted to get the administration office to switch about my schedule, and since- but I have only told Madge, out of curiosity. Effie's empathy, Johanna's strength only work on the physical. My ability, and Madge's, works on the mind.

"Are you saying you couldn't persuade Katniss?" Finnick tilts his head. Curiosity flickers in his eyes- for once their natural amber, and not the false hazel-green contacts provide. "Peeta?"

I sigh, shaking my head.

"What is he shaking his head for?" Effie frowns. "Peeta, dear, what are you shaking your head for?"

"Madge can't manipulate Katniss's mind," Finnick clarifies. The young man exchanges a look with Aurelius. "And Peeta can't read her mind, either."

"So brainless... really is?"

"Johanna," Effie chastises. "It is inappropriate to discuss someone's intelligence-"

"Blah, blah- what's Katniss's deal, bread boy?"

This is precisely why I haven't brought it up. Typically, Madge's confidence is just that- but in this sort of situation, of course she would break it. It's effected us, and our tenuous-at-best relationship with the Quileute.

"I don't know," I admit.

"We should figure this out." Finnick squints slightly. "Have you tried-"

"I don't want to discuss it." I give Finnick a hard stare, but he appears undeterred.

"Well, I was able to fiddle with her emotions a few times, so obviously she's not completely immune-"

"Shut up."

"Peeta, this could effect all of us, not just you and Madge-"

"We're not discussing this!"

"We have to, if it interferes with our living arrangements-"

"It won't. It was just a coincidence."

"And next time?"

"You don't know that there _will_ be a next time!" I yell.

Finnick's hands clasp together, and he studies me intently for a while. "It's on the table, Peet."

"Right," bitterness escapes on my tongue, and I have a hard time containing a sneer. "Unlike Annie?"

Finnick stands up, a head taller than me, and looking as if he's about to pummel me. I know I've stepped over a boundary, but the anger is welling up beyond what I can suppress.

 _(Annie, Annie, Annie, in all different shapes and forms; it's practically all Finnick can think about half the time. A pretty girl with sunkissed skin, flowing hair, and seagreen eyes- bound up and screaming and crying, but never from memory so much as imagination. Lovely young lady, who no one ever dares discuss.)_

"Let's give her a call, Finn, see what she has to say about this?"

Aurelius steps in between us, putting a hand on Finnick's chest. I hear Madge's song faltering, though not stopping entirely, and Effie is blabbering something about behaving ourselves.

"Calm yourself," Aurelius tells Finnick.

They hold one another's gaze for a while, before Finnick breaks off, walking away to the fireplace. Johanna watches him like a hawk, but all of us remain silent. Aurelius turns to me, puts a hand on my shoulder.

"That's not a topic for you." the doctor's grip is firm, but his tone remains gentle. "Understand?"

I give a terse nod, before glancing over at Finnick. In turn, the golden boy looks over his shoulder, meeting my gaze with an even enough expression to even give me a slight smile. I don't bother apologizing, because I realize I've already been forgiven.

"I don't want any more trouble," Aurelius releases his touch, looking around the room at all of us. "Madge?"

The blonde pauses, turning to face us all.

"We're all going to keep some distance." Dr. Cullen glances at me. "Not enough to cause notice, though."

I nod, before putting my arms across my chest, and staring at Johanna.

"Why are you looking at me?" Johanna snaps.

Everyone simply stares at the girl.

"Fine." Jo raises her hands as if in surrender. "I won't touch brainless with a ten-foot pole."

I glance at Finnick, who simply rolls his eyes. To his credit, he places his hand on his chest.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," he mocks.

"Finnick," Aurelius intones, voice implying no-nonsense.

"I'm her study-buddy, remember?" Finnick gives me a wink. "I promise I won't bother your girlfriend."

"She isn't my girlfriend," I grumble. If I still felt a heart beating in my chest, I might be blushing. Fortunately, I don't. "But thanks."

The tension eases somewhat, as Aurelius musses my hair, then sets himself up in the recliner chair. Madge continues her melody on the piano, and I pointedly ignore her. Johanna shifts on the couch. I'm waiting for the moment when the slouching couch frame creaks further apart, and Johanna ends up on the floor.

Finnick must wonder the same thing, as clear from his kicking the base of the frame. Johanna, in turn, catches his foot in one hand, and slowly squeezes it, until a distinct 'crack' signals her strength is far greater, even, than his reinforced bone structure.

"Well, children!" Effie claps her hands together. "Who's hungry for some cake?"

Unsurprisingly, no one raises their hand, except Effie.

After all, I already have to excuse myself, five minutes in, to retch out the undigested Chinese food lurking in my stomach.

* * *

It's nearly sunrise when I finish the sketch. It's fragmented, really. Scavenge from images, none having just the right capture; but, still, I take a step back, checking the symmetry of the framing. I begin to map the colors out in my head, noting the mixture to create the correct tone for her eyes; the correct highlights of red within the dark brown of her hair.

Looking at the sketch before me, I feel as comforted as I ever could, since the accident.

Just as relieved at the mystery that she is. A rush of curiosity, and desire.

This is my birthday present to myself, I decide.

A portrait of Kat Everdeen to try and satiate what I know I'm not meant to want.

* * *

 _another short one, just to clarify a few things. Mainly that: Johanna, Finnick, and Madge are all somewhat conglomerations of the Emmet/Rosalie/Alice/Jasper, and so they will have a combination of attributes, along with their own traits from THG canon. IDK if that was confusing at all x.x_

 _thankyouforreadingggg! I'm snowed in and been trying to get this out of my head in between shoveling mounds of snow! hope you're all safe and happy and healthy! as always comments/crit/etc are appreciated! 3_


	12. Chapter 12: Belated

**_In which, Kat has feels._**

 ** _Peeta draws things._**

 ** _Gale is pissy._**

 ** _(And Prim preps for a class trip.)_**

* * *

Screamo music echoes in the cab of my truck. Only one speaker works in full- though, not without occasional fuzz and garbling. The old beast does the trick, blasting my music loud enough to be heard from a couple of feet away.

Enough for the car to shake. Unless the shaking signals the framing is about ready to bust, which is possible.

Hopefully not.

Darry's parents' sporting goods store has agreed to employ me on weekends, meaning spare cash to line my wallet. The job doesn't pay near enough to cover a check-up for this old pile of metal, though. Never mind replacement parts.

Prim would be whining, right about now, to lower the volume. It's the best form of vicarious relief that I have, though, since the archery club frowns upon taking the bows and quivers off of school grounds.

Going to more than two meetings qualifies me as somewhat-involved in the club, I suppose. Still, if only I could take the tools of the trade and practice in my backyard, I think a lot of this pent-up aggravation would have left me by now.

Or, I could take care of part of the problem in the moment, at least.

The soccer mom patrol glares in my direction, and a smirk forms on my lips. Judging from persistent stares, gossip remains their strong-suit. Me flipping them the bird must have clued them in well enough to keep their comments to themselves, though, as they haven't said anything to me, or within my hearing range.

As the grey sky opens up, yet again, the moms gather themselves under the doorway's overhang, or beneath umbrellas. A few retreat to the safety of their cars.

Tuning out a distant grumble of thunder, I sing along with my music, looking back to the middle school doors. Careful to ignore locking gazes with a looming figure, I tell myself I'm still angry with him. There's no point in being angry, really, but the fact of the matter is, he seems to have no rhyme or reason for the intensity of his anger, and that upsets me more than anything else. Madge's family, sure, he could have an issue with them. But I've watched Madge, a bit, at school. She's quiet, sweet; even asked me about Primrose, the Monday after the beach incident.

And, even if she weren't a quiet, sweet girl... she is still fourteen. I cannot imagine she could have done anything to earn Gale's calling her trash.

Gale had all but dogged us the entire time we were on the beach, and when I confronted him that Monday, he blew me off, insisting the Cullens were trouble.

I told him he needed to apologize, but rather than complying, he exploded and told me I didn't know what I was talking about.

 _"Then what is the damn problem, Gale?"_

 _"I-"_ he had broken off, jaw clenching in obvious frustration. _"I can't talk about it."_

I walked away at that point, not wanting to argue anymore. Especially considering he doesn't deem me worthy of his confidence.

I can't say I'll never speak to him, not when Prim clearly adores Rory and his family, Gale included. I see that, as the doors open and middle schoolers rush out. Prim gives Gale a hug, before getting into the car with me. I lower the volume to the music, as Prim buckles herself in.

"Katniss, look!"

She's waving a piece of paper in my face, preventing me from putting the car back in drive.

I carefully take the paper from her hands, reading it over, before frowning.

 _Dear Parent or Guardian,_ _Your child is going on a field trip on Wednesday, September 30th. The bus will leave promptly at 12:15, and will return to the school around 3:30 p.m. Please read all of the following information, sign the bottom line, and have this slip returned by Wednesday, September 23rd. Be sure school officials and class chaperones aware of any special instructions regarding your child._

Eyes flit over the rest of the information, enough to gage that the location for the trip is about an hour's drive out of town, at a greenhouse that focuses on organics and recycling. The trip will be on a school day, in the middle of the afternoon.

Which means I, likely, cannot being Prim's chaperone.

Which leaves only one other option, causing me to cringe.

"I guess Haymitch could chaperone," I grumble, not liking the idea any more than I liked him doing anything at all.

I trust the schoolbus driver, to get Prim to school safely in the morning, before I trust Haymitch. I'm not sure if it says more about him, or me.

At least he hasn't had a drink, from what I've seen, since our first week of living here.

"No, that's all right!" Primrose insists. "The class already has volunteer chaperones."

I purse my lips, but simply nod my head, pulling out of the spot, and heading home.

"Katniss?" Prim asks, as we near the house.

"Mhm?" I ask, stuck for a moment as the car before us struggles to make a left turn.

"Can we have Chinese food again?"

* * *

I'm not prepared for the call we receive that night. It's my mother, telling me that she and Phil are having a wonderful time in Prague.

"Oh, darling, we should Skype!"

"No, thanks," I reply, tone clipped. "Here's Prim."

My sister, of course, is thrilled. I try to ignore the sting of hurt in the pit of my stomach, when Prim begins to cry, and tell our mother how much she misses her.

* * *

A glass slide clicks against the lab table. A spare, I leave it at the edge of the desk, in light of the one already set up on the microscope. Peeta leans over, fiddles with the focus before quickly pulling away.

"All yours," he says, with a slight smile.

"Thank you," I retort. I shift, so I can look through the top, and make note of the different sections of the cell.

A week, and then two more have passed since Peeta Cullen bought me and my sister Chinese food. It sits in my chest, like a weighted anchor, slowly tugging me back to him. We have had this odd interaction, ridiculously polite, and formal. He was in my house for something like a half-hour, and now we're treating each other the way you typically treat cashiers, or servers. _'Thank you,'_ and _'Would you like,'_ and _'Please.'_ I didn't expect much, to be honest, but it wasn't to be so polite with this boy to the point of feeling strangled.

I lean back, giving a tight smile, and motioning for Peeta to have a look. With his eyes still glued to the eyepiece, his pencil makes quick work of illustrating the blank box, where the lab diagram is meant to go. I watch in awe. It doesn't seem to be entirely conscious an act. In fact, when he pulls away, he glances down and blinks at his own drawing, seeming just as surprised.

"How did you do that?" I ask, frowning at him.

There's a nervous clench to his hands, and the laugh he gives is too shaky to be convincing. He doesn't meet my eyes, sliding his sheet over to me.

"Want to copy it?"

I have to laugh, in response, because there is no way I could mimic the kind of precision he has just accomplished.

"Here," he starts, before pausing. "May I?"

I nod, and watch as he quickly makes a precise replication of the cell, perspective and everything.

I knew he was good; I've seen him doodling, here or there during class.

But I had no idea he was _this_ good.

When his hand moves away, and his eyes meet mine, there's something shy in the way he looks at me. I give him a small smile.

"Thank you," I repeat my earlier comment.

"You're welcome," he smiles back.

It's strange, how eased I feel just by the smile he gives me.

* * *

We are gifted a few days of sunshine. I'm gifted tutor sessions, without actually having my tutor there. And lab sessions without Peeta Cullen.

By the fourth day, I finally call his number, and leave a voicemail, asking if everything is all right. I receive a text message in response, saying _everything is fine,_ and _I'll be in tomorrow_. The amount of relief I have, upon seeing him, is ridiculous. I mask it, play it down. He says he has been on a hiking retreat. I pretend not to have been effected by his absence.

There haven't been anymore reports or incidents where the animal that attacked Mr. Ripper is concerned. There really isn't any danger.

In theory.

Before I know it, Primrose is leaving school, her backpack filled with everything she will need on her class trip. My stomach is in knots but, trying to give her some leeway, I play it down; make as if I'm not running over a million different ways this scenario could end horribly wrong.

She's wearing her hair in the two braids, just as she had on the first day of school. I give her a smile, tugging on the end of one pigtail and earning a grin in response.

"So, I'll meet you outside after school, right?" I remind her.

Prim nods, enthusiastically.

I take a deep breath, keep my smile on my face.

"Three-thirty-"

"On the dot!" Prim finishes, before giving me a hug. "I have to go, tell Haymitch I said goodbye!"

I keep thousands of words to myself, watching my sister head off to the bus.

I tuck my phone into the pocket of my trousers, double- and triple-checking that it's fully charged.

"Have a good morning, sourpuss," Haymitch tells me as I leave.

There's something oddly comforting to how normal flipping him off feels.

* * *

 ** _hey, so it's been nearly a month, and I am so sorry for that. I've tried many times to get this updated but it hasn't come out the right way, I've basically had the same cold (in varying degrees) since mid-January among other distractions that haven't proved so conducive to writing. I *really* hope this isn't disappointing in how short/fragmented it is or anything. I'm not quite in the best mindset so please forgive any errors. I hope to update this sooner in the next few weeks, but that may or may not be possible, depending on how life decides to go! AND THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR YOUR PATIENCE I KNOW HOW ANNOYING IT IS TO WAIT FOR UPDATES xoxo_**

 ** _I ALSO need to apologize for a big (or maybe not so) boo-boo, this being that school starts in Washington state in August, not in September like it does where I'm from xD so kindly ignore any inconsistencies there, haha!_**

 ** _**you may or may not know where this is going... and if you have an idea lemme know your predictions ;D_**

 ** _Thankyou for reading, as always comments/crit./anything is always appreciated XOXO_**


	13. Chapter 13

**_In which, Peeta and Katniss can kind of have civilized conversation, and Katniss has car trouble._**

My eyes are glued on clock throughout my first few classes, and I walk through the day with somewhat of a haze. Did Prim leave yet? Did she have enough to eat? Are the chaperones making sure nothing bad happens in the back of the bus? I try to tell myself there's not much to do- after all, that's the truth, but it doesn't ease my mind at all. My fingers drum along the lunch table, going unnoticed as Delly and Angela talk about dress shopping. Apparently, they have a date in mind to head to Port Angeles, and Madge is going to accompany us. Delly has a limo planned, too, and I carefully make neutral retorts to avoid confirming or denying my potential attendance. Thom, apparently, finally asked Madge, and she agreed to go to the Homecoming Dance with him, provided one of her siblings come in our limo. I can't say I blame her dad for apparently wanting his littlest girl to have someone to look out for her. God knows, if Prim and I were ever in the same school I'd be watching her like a hawk.

The bell rings, and I'm headed on my way when I accidentally bump into Peeta.

"Hey," he gives me a smile. I return the expression briefly, before a bulky senior boy backs into my, nearly knocking my over. Peeta grabs me by the wrist, stopping me from stumbling into a brick wall. The frigid temperature of his fingers startle me, and I tug myself from his grip. "Sorry."

I clear my throat, pointedly looking straight ahead and masking my discomfort with a blank expression. He accompanies me to class, but makes a point, even in the crowded halls not to be too close. It's an impressive accomplishment, considering how stacked the corridors are with body heat. I purposely take the cut through the courtyard, pulling my hoodie up over my head, ignoring the light flecks of precipitation. Peeta follows me, the fresh air likely relieving him as well as me. It's not until we're both seated in Biology that he says anything more.

"How's tutoring going?" he asks. Our classmates are still filing in at a snail's pace, no teacher in sight seeming to provide everyone with incentive to mill around the class, or in some cases, talk on their phones.

"Fine."

Peeta nods at my curt statement, before shifting, pulling his assignments out, forming neat piles. An awkward silence settles, and I find myself glancing at Peeta's hands. Thick, sturdy, and yet as I watch he begins to draw sketches in the margins, flowers and faces and... is that someone screaming? I frown, noticing the alternation between light doodles and more disturbing, more serious imagery. Instinctively, my hand reaches out and snatches the page from him. I study the images, becoming more concerned with the detailed images of severed heads and bloodshot eyes than anything else.

"What the hell, Peeta?" I demand, horrified. I look at him, when he doesn't respond, but his expression is blank. "What is this?!"

"It's nothing." He grabs the sheet back, tucking it underneath all of his other work. "It's... I've been working on sketches."

"For what, a horror movie?"

"No. For... a project."

I stare, unconvinced. He simply shrugs.

"After the accident, I've had these... images in my head."

"Nightmares?" I prompt.

After the fire, I had vivid nightmares of my father, engulfed and shrieking, burning to a crisp before my eyes. I had to train myself not to cry out and wake my poor sister up. Eventually, they faded away. Not entirely, but enough where I didn't wake up every night.

"Sure." He twirls a pen between his pointer and middle finger, not meeting my gaze. "Anyway, I've been drawing and painting as an outlet. Aurelius thought it would help."

After my father had died, a school psychologist tried to get me to use crayons and paper to, _'sketch out my feelings.'_ I had refused.

"Does it? Help you, I mean?"

"I think it does." Peeta shrugs. "Better than letting it stay inside and drive you nuts, right?"

I stare at him a while longer. "I'm sorry."

I don't know what else to say.

"Don't be." Peeta still doesn't look at me. "I'm sorry, too, you know."

An internal cringe wrestles to express itself. "Thanks."

 _What, is he going to give me another check and more rolls of bread?_

"I don't mean to sound condescending, or whatever." Golden-brown eyes meet mine. "When Prim mentioned, about your mom and dad-"

"Stepdad," I quickly correct.

"Stepdad." Peeta nods. "They just up and left?"

"Not exactly." Mom had at least come up with a living arrangement, called Haymitch and gotten his okay on the matter. I'll give her credit for that much. "There's some _Super Important Thing_ that he had to do in Europe. And mom _had_ to accompany him."

"She said she had to, or he did?"

"She did."

Peeta hums something like an understanding. "And he didn't want you or Prim to come?"

I shrug.

"Seems a little..." Peeta doesn't finish his sentence.

He doesn't have to, I know what he's implying.

"He wasn't trying to ditch us," I reply. At least, I don't _think_ he was the one who wanted to ditch us. "I don't know, Phil's... nice."

"Meaning, you hate him?"

"No."

I don't hate him. Phil is nice, like I said. He looks at my mother as if the sun shines out of her rear, for one thing. He's polite, offered Prim and me new dresses for their marriage at the Justice of the Peace. He had actually offered to pay for a trip to Disney, too, not that I'd let us accept. He probably would've paid for us to go with him, if mom had brought it up. But she didn't. She ran away, just like always. Physical, this time, rather than just mental. That's all my mom ever seems to be good at doing. I've tried not to be so angry, tried to give her credit for at least pulling herself out of her stupor enough to get back on her feet. But it seems as if she was determined to start a new life. In a new country. We were just painful reminders of what she needed to have her new husband pay for, not a responsibility she wanted. Not the family she wants, just one she wants to replace.

I don't know how to word this to Peeta, so I don't bother.

"My mom's maybe not so into being a mom." I leave it at that, and Peeta seems to accept this.

"How's living with Haymitch?" he changes the route of our conversation.

I snort. "Grand."

He doesn't seem to be drunk all the time. That's something, right? Peeta gives a chuckle, and our conversation tapers off for a while. Mr. Latier fails to make an appearance, as does a substitute teacher, and the noise level begins to reach cringeworthy. I check the clock, noting that Prim is probably already at the greenhouse, learning her brains out. Peeta pulls out a sketchbook, beginning to doodle different students in the class. His focus keys in, hands fascinating me as I watch him work. It fascinates me, considering I can hardly draw a stick-figure. And, here Peeta is, shading and blending with a pencil alone.

The class passes without a single teacher appearing, and I have to admit, I'm slightly disappointed when the bell finally rings. Peeta waves as we depart, and as I change for gym, I realize I haven't bothered to check the time. I half wonder if he wasn't knowingly distracting me from my worries.

Impossible, probably, but somewhat of a comforting thought.

* * *

"Damn!" I yell, slamming my hand on the steering wheel. Pointlessly, I try the ignition a second time, hearing the _tick-tick-tick_ of my truck's engine failing to start. Only, this time, a small plume of smoke emits from the engine. _"Damnit!"_

I throw the door to my truck opened, pulling my phone out as my hands shake in frustration. No missed calls, and we still have fifteen minutes.

A cab?

Call Haymitch?

My options swirl around my head, and I startle when I hear my name being called out from behind me. I spin around, and see Peeta stop in his tracks.

"What's wrong?" he asks, quickly jogging to my side.

"My car!" I kick the wheel in frustration. "And I need to get to Prim's school!"

"It's an emergency?" He frowns, clearly worried. "Come on, I've got Finnick's keys."

"Why?" I follow him closely, both jogging to where the doorless Jeep is sitting.

"He forgot some things he needs for his meet."

"Well I can-"

"Just get in, we'll call Marty's on the way and they can tow your truck."

I jump in the passenger's seat, storing my bag in the trunk and buckling myself in. Peeta steps with a lead foot on the gas and I can't help but cringe, watching the speedometer anxiously. We're halfway down the road, Marty having agreed to pick my car up around five-thirty tonight, when I frown at Peeta, noting his concentration. Delly had said something, about him going blind. Was that true? How the hell could it be, when he's driving?

"What?" Peeta inquires absentmindedly, eyes glued to the road ahead.

"Huh?"

"You seem like you want to ask me something."

"Uh, yeah." I pull my phone out, checking for any calls or messages. Not that it hasn't been in my hand this entire time, but... well, I could have missed it. "Just something Delly said."

The lack of doors on the car makes gentle drops splat inside every now and then. The wind picks up, combining with the speed of the car to make some of my hair, what's loose from my braid, smack me in the face.

"She still saying that I'm going blind?" Peeta smirks.

"Yes." My brow furrows. "You know about that?"

Peeta's smirk widens, and he glances at me, amused. "Of course."

"Why don't you correct her or something?"

Peeta shrugs. "I think it's pretty funny. I told her I got my license, when it's not like I could if I had the sort of condition she thinks. But she's still convinced."

"Where'd she get the idea from?" I can't help but find his amusement a little off-putting.

"Who knows." Peeta pauses. "It's a left up here?"

"Yeah."

I'm relieved, as Peeta backs the car into a space, to see the bus hasn't arrived yet.

"So..."

"So," Peeta echoes me.

I open my mouth, but hear the sound of the bus approaching. I breathe a sigh of relief, watching it pull in, but the relief is short-lived. Rather than slowly ambling through the lot, like normal, the bus picks up speed as it turns. It speeds past us, straight through the lot, heading for where the blacktop ends into a sharp incline, leading to a ravine-

"No!"

I struggle to unbuckle my seatbelt, running before I realize what I'm doing. Steps stomp against slick concrete. I hear the unmistakable shrieks, watching helplessly as I try to catch up. The bus thumps against then over the concrete barrier. A flurry of blonde hair flies past me and I push myself, my legs burning as I approach the edge.

The school bus has rolled over the edge.

Prim's name rips through my lips.

 _ **thankyouthankyouthankyou for reading! any comments/crit./etc. are appreciated (I promise I'll try to update sooner also I'm sorry if this chapter is rushed at all) xoxo**_


	14. Funny (isn't it?)

_**There was a time, in Arizona, when I went to a classmate's house for a pool party. I stood on the slippery diving board, uncomfortable and terrified of drowning. I barely knew how to swim. One of the girls called out something, causing me to spin before I slipping clear off of the slick surface. I remember my back slapping against the chlorinated surface, water invading my nostrils and opened mouth as the sun was slowly eclipsed, the lower I sank in the waves, the more fractured the shards of light became, until my world went dark.**_

 _ **It feels that way now.**_

* * *

A smashing sound, metal groaning against rock.

The bus has stopped.

I don't see Peeta anywhere.

But I'm more worried about my sister.

"Prim!" I scream. "Primrose!"

The grass is slippery underfoot, the uneven ground hard to cling to without slipping and sliding on the way down. I'm grappling with soft, muddied soil intersperse with rocks, half-crawling my way to the wreckage with cemented shoes that are bogged down every other steps. Landed upright, but leaning precariously agains the rocks and half-stumped bushes in the gully. The bus is dented and smashed, glass missing or cracked in most of the windows. The rear escape door is opened as I hurry towards it, dazed students and teachers stumbling out, one by one. Parent chaperones call out, grab their kids as some collapse onto the grass, others standing about. Some have cuts or bruises, but seem mostly unharmed. I'm scanning the crowds emerging with increasing anxiety. The emerging flow stops shortly after Rory Hawthorne emerges.

I look again and again.

No Prim.

 _He's supposed to be her best damned friend._

I grab Rory gruffly by the shoulders, despite the bruises blooming on his right side. A teacher starts to protest, but I ignore him.

"Where's Prim?" I demand.

"I-" he looks surprised, and begins gazing about, as if in a daze. "She was right next to me."

I pull away, running to the opened escape door. Barely on the step up, I see Peeta's sturdy form emerging from the wreck, his arms carrying a tiny blonde.

My sister.

My legs move in slow motion. Everything seems to stand still.

There was a time, in Arizona, when I went to a classmate's house for a pool party. I stood on the slippery diving board, uncomfortable and terrified of drowning. I barely knew how to swim. One of the girls called out something, causing me to spin before I slipping clear off of the slick surface. I remember my back slapping against the chlorinated surface, water invading my nostrils and opened mouth as the sun was slowly eclipsed, the lower I sank in the waves, the more fractured the shards of light became, until my world went dark.

It feels that way now, the light from my sister dim. The world narrows, until it's just her, all her, and breathing is a contact sport. I hear someone yelling for ambulances, for the police. Conversation exists on the periphery of what I care to notice.

Peeta sets her down on the ground. I drop to my knees. There is blood running down her temple, her mouth hangs opened and her body is at least three shades paler than normal.

"No, no, no!" I gingerly touch her shoulders, my fingers shaking. I repeat her name, over and over, a chant that my lips release without my brain comprehending. Stinging in my eyes turns to tears. I try to press my hands against where the blood is pooling. Tears fog my vision. Her eyes flutter and I inhale sharply. "Prim?"

Blue eyes are tiny crescents, pale lashes fluttering, giving the indication that it's just a bad hit to the head.

 _But there's so much blood,_ I think. I gulp heavily, holding a hand over her lips to be sure she's breathing. An unintended gasp at finding breath expelled from her lips escapes me.

 _She's all right, she's alive._

"She got knocked out," a voice invades.

My gaze moves to Peeta, but I see him stepping away from us. I want to reach out to him, want to thank him.

 _Say something, anything,_ I tell myself.

Only he's turning his back, disappearing back up the hill. Shaky hands stroke my sister's blonde strands from her face, her lips opening to breathe out my name. Blood is drying to a dark brown on my palms. I swallow my nausea, blink away the tears. A wash of relief floods me and I feel my heart calming, my throat still clamped. I clear it repeatedly, but still just sit in the muddy grass, watching my sister's chest rise and fall.

And I count the ways I owe Peeta not only my life, but now my sister's.

Twice-over.

The ambulance arrives, my sister and the bus driver the only two who need to be taken from the scene on stretchers. The bus driver, apparently, had gone into cardiac arrest. She was still unconscious, and the first ambulance to arrive quickly whisked her from the scene.

Prim, on the other hand, is alert enough that they can examine her quickly before loading her on to the second ambulance. They have a brace around her neck, and gingerly assess her ribcage and right side of her body. She's bruised and banged up, cuts from glass and impact with metal alike.

Haymitch arrives at the scene, asking gruffly if I wants him to accompany us to the hospital. He tries to actually hug me, but I quickly rebuff him. He and the paramedics are discussing something, as I wait inside the vehicle with Prim.

I hold my sister's hand, while we wait for the ambulance to depart from the school's parking lot. I hear Prim whispering my name again, and lean closer to her.

"What's wrong, little duck?" I murmur, continuing to stroke her hair. It's as much a comfort for me as it is for her.

"Peeta…?"

"He had to go," I retort. I want to say more, but I don't dare. I feel a surge of panic as I recall that he's taken my backpack along with his Jeep, but at least my keys and wallet are stuffed in my pockets, along with my phone. Anger fills me, as I realize he hadn't even asked if she was alive before departing.

Prim mumbles something, but it's a low and quiet whisper. I can't quite here her, over the rear doors to the vehicle shutting. I lean in, so that Prim can whisper in my ear. When she does, I stare at her in disbelief.

"What did you say?" I ask, sharper than I intend.

"Peeta stopped the bus."

"Prim, you're hurt-"

"I saw it!" she insists. Prim's eyes widen, dilating. She swallows heavily, voice more firm when she continues speaking. "We were right by the front, and I watched him hold out his hands, he stopped the bus from going any further. And he- the front part, the glass, he ripped it apart because I was stuck under the seat."

"Prim," I begin, but she tightens her hold on my hand.

"He stopped the bus with his bare hands!" her voice raises in pitch, and I note the distress in it. "He came to save me, Katniss! The seat had me pegged and I was stuck, and he came to get me after he stopped the bus!"

I look up as a paramedic enters from the front, settling in a seat a few feet from us both.

"Okay." I nod, holding her hand and deciding to go with the fiction she's created. "Okay, duck."

She quiets, once I've accepted her words. I take a deep breath, not knowing what to say or do. I mull over her words. Peeta had sped ahead of me, but in my panic, I had lost track of him.

That doesn't matter. Because it's not possible, what my sister is saying.

It's just not possible. It's fiction, the idea that anyone could stop a bus with his bare hands. Pull a windshield apart and then move the metal seats?

But then, how had he gotten into the bus? I hadn't seen him climb in the rear entrance, and… Prim might be injured, but she's not crazy.

I think about the visions Peeta had drawn, the images I had witnessed plaguing my mind.

 _Did he see this coming?_

* * *

I pace back and forth outside of the hospital room. Inside, Prim is sleeping. The doctors have run a number of tests, but they have told us the wounds are likely, 'superficial.' I had tried not to give a biting comment in return to that. Superficial my ass. But they don't believe she has a concussion. I had pressed the panic button earlier, when I first saw her eyes shut, but she had awoken easily, and has anytime I've gone to wake her since.

 _'She's lucky,'_ one of the nurses had told me, earlier. She's lucky to not have a concussion, lucky that there are no signs in any of the scans of any immediate danger.

Lucky that Peeta Mellark stopped a _bus_ and carried her out from the wreckage.

Haymitch went to find a doctor a while ago, the nurses have said the doctor wants to speak with us about potentially holding my sister overnight. From where I'm standing, my dear old uncle probably went to have a shot at the bar down the road. My chest tightens, and I force myself to sit. Eventually, while my foot bounces on the floor, I am so preoccupied with studying the tile floors, I don't initially pay any mind to footsteps which pause a few feet from me.

A yellow backpack appears to my left, seemingly dangling in midair. My eyes drift to the hand holding it out.

 _Peeta._

My eyes snap up, golden-brown set on me.

"This is yours." His tone is nonchalant, terribly out of place given our surroundings.

"Oh.." I retrieve my backpack, resting it on the chair next to me. I can't bring myself to keep level with the scrutiny of his gaze. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He's looking past me, through the glass window to where Prim is sleeping. His forehead is furrowed, hands hanging limply at his side.

"She's fine."

Peeta looks down at me, expression abruptly neutral. "You're a terrible liar, Katniss."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Something's obviously wrong."

"What did you do?" I blurt out.

"What?"

"Prim thinks you stopped that bus with your bare hands."

A chuckle escapes his lips. "She what?"

My gaze narrows, and I study him closely. "She wasn't lying."

"She has a concussion."

"No she doesn't. She knows what she saw."

"Is that right?" Peeta's smirk is condescending at best, cruel at worst. "Well maybe she needs a therapist instead of-"

"Shut up!" I snap, standing up quickly and crossing my arms across my chest. "Peeta, my sister's not crazy."

"Then I guess she just has an overactive imagination-"

"Are you kidding me?!"

"Or, maybe she's just lying."

"Don't you _dare,"_ I snap. The idea of Prim lying to me, of Prim fantasizing enough to have it cloud what she tells me. Prim might love romanticizing things, but to _lie,_ to even imply it... my blood is about to boil at the very notion that she would do that; that Peeta would dismiss her words so easily. "She knows what she saw. And she wouldn't make this sort of thing up."

Peeta doesn't respond. That smirk is frozen on his lips. I want to slap him. My hands grip into tight fists.

I shake my head at him. "Just tell me the truth."

Peeta snorts, shaking his head. His lips open, but something catches his eye over my shoulder. Suspicious, I keep my focus on him, only to feel a weight on my shoulder. The contact makes me jump.

"Sweetheart." Haymitch keeps a hand on my shoulder, motioning to the doctor next to him before patting him on the back. "Meet Doctor Aurelius Cullen."

"Katniss, it's a pleasure to meet you."

The man before me looks perhaps in his mid- to late forties, slicked-back blonde hair, pale skin, and the same amber-brown eyes as Peeta. My instincts stand on edge, as I look between Peeta and his supposed _maternal_ uncle. The faces are nothing alike, even if their coloring is similar. And the amber-brown, such a shift from Peeta's natural blue eyes as a child… I clench my jaw, before offering the doctor a tight smile. I study him as he begins to speak. Cufflinks, looking as if they're from an antiques store. Spotlessly white labcoat, more like a research scientist or professor than an actual ER worker. Spiffed and polished shoes, black and white resembling an old movie from the thirties or forties.

Doctor Cullen isn't a regular ER doctor. Doctor Cullen is probably only speaking to us, about my sister, because our uncle is the Town Sheriff.

And then, something occurs to me.

"Aren't you a head doctor?" I say, cutting off whatever he had been saying, about any disorientation Prim may have.

Delly had said 'head doctor,' as in… a psychologist. Besides, he has a copy of all of our paperwork, all the information he is currently giving me and Haymitch can also be found in there. This little speech is pretty much a waste of our time, and I don't understand why Haymitch dragged the man all the way down here for this.

Haymitch is glaring daggers at me, but Dr. Cullen simply gives a light smile.

"I'm the head of the Emergency Room, yes."

 _Oh,_ I think. That makes more sense.

"In any case," the Doctor hands me the copy of instructions. "Copies of prescriptions will be forwarded to your pharmacy."

"Thank you."

I grip the papers tightly, before catching a curious look shared between the Doctor and Peeta.

"I'll see you at home," Peeta interjects abruptly, before turning and walking away. I watch his back as he disappears around the corner.

"Excuse me." Doctor Cullen follows Peeta down the hall.

"Hey, sweetheart." Haymitch bumps my shoulder, and I raise a brow at him. "How 'bout we go get some coffee?"

I glance at Prim, still sleeping soundly in her hospital bed, before nodding.

My tired bones begin to give themselves away not long after taking a seat in the hospital's cafeteria. Haymitch taps his styrofoam cup against my own, before raising it slightly in the air.

"Fun day, huh?"

I take a gulp of the steaming hot liquid. "Yeah."

I'm surprised, after everything, that it burns just as much as it would have yesterday.

Funny.

* * *

 _ **HELLO HI! first of all, I am so sorry for delays that have overtaken updates, I've been sick on and off and my schedule at work has been erratic at best. secondly THANK YOU to everyone who has stuck with me so far, I am so grateful to you, even if you've never commented, or just left one or two words, it really means a lot to me and thank you and yeah! (none of this has been beta'd and I'm getting a bit overwhelmed with three fics on tap so all the comments are the bestest and help me gage how it's going ;D)**_

 _ **THANK YOU ALL SOSO MUCH, any comments/crit./etc as always will be mucho appreciated! see you hopefully in three weeks which is my current scheduling for this story ;D xoxo**_


	15. Livin' on a prayer

A deluge falls heavily, sheets upon sheets of angry precipitation. An unending rhythmic drumming is enough to give me a headache, having woken me long before my alarm. The sheets are a rigid comfort, still stiff from having been freshly laundered before I went to bed last night. Bargain-brand detergent was just fine, but I had forgotten the sheets were hanging in the basement. Even though I had tossed and turned throughout the night, the material (perhaps because of its newness) determined to keep from softening. Fists ball the edges of the sheets, pull them tighter around me, as if this will help lull me into an hours' worth of rest. Instead, I find myself watching the ceiling, looking around the room. It is too early to get out of bed, but not enough time to really get any sleep, either.

Cool air billows the curtains. The draft whistles through a left-opened crack at the top of the window. The temperature has dropped dramatically, in the past five days. The weather channel had commented that if the thermostats go much lower, we'll be pelted with ice instead of rain.

Can't wait.

We'd gotten some hail in Phoenix, over the years. A sprinkling of 'snow,' even, though it was closer to powdered sugar, and disappeared within a few minutes of the midday Arizona sun. I am not sure if I am excited for winter, or not. The cold isn't my favorite thing. The last time I saw more than a dusting of snow was when we were living here, ten years ago.

Arizona feels too far away. I really didn't expect to say that within two months of moving here. I wouldn't have expected to miss the desert. I should call Sae and Cray, I realize. I haven't spoken to them since the morning Prim and I drove off in the truck.

 _The truck that currently is sitting in an auto-body shop in town._ In the absence of being able to drive my father's truck, I have accepted Haymitch's Nissan on temporary loan. The only alternative would be to spend extra time in the car with Haymitch, having him drive me and Prim both home from school. In my case, _to_ school, as well. I think I see as much of my uncle as I can handle, at the moment.

My clock clicks on, bursting to life with that familiar radio station, low and interrupted by bouts of static. Downstairs, dishes clink loudly. I wonder if Prim is helping Haymitch with breakfast. She shouldn't be; she should still be resting. They've said she will probably be cleared to go back to school in a week, doctor's assessment pending. Her ribs still need to be watched carefully, she winces with too much movement, or stretching too far. She had developed a cold since coming home, not helped by her asthma. Though, thankfully bronchitis and a flu haven't reared an ugly head just yet. I'm convinced she caught the germs in the hospital- who knows how many sick people her nurses had attended to throughout the day, before checking on her? I should've never let them keep her overnight. But Haymitch and the doctors alike tell me I'm being too quick to make the accusation. I have to default to their authority, but that doesn't mean I'm happy about it.

My muscles groan in protest protest as I sit up in bed, pushing the sheets off of me and stretching slowly. Tilting my head to my side, my neck cracks and I cringe at the sound. I must have slept at a bad angle. The rain had woken me up several times throughout the night, leaving my dreams odd and distorted. At one point, I dreamt I was closing my window against the incoming storm, only to see Peeta standing in Haymitch's yard. I dreamt him keeping watch in that same spot I had imagined him standing weeks ago. Dreams are supposed to be what you can't resolve during the daytime.

Boy, is that an appropriate assessment in my case.

 _"Can I talk to you for a second?" I asked, standing out of the way of the class filing into Biology._

 _Peeta had been only a few feet from me, but pointedly trying to push his way through the crowded hallways, as if to escape me. He had ignored me, even when I called out his name as we left the cafeteria. I expected him to continue on his way, continue to ignore me. Instead, Peeta rolled his eyes and followed me to the side of the doorframe, a rare space in the hallway, where we wouldn't be trampled. He kept a distinctive space between us, lips tightly shut. I couldn't see his chest moving, or nostrils flaring the way they would if he were inhaling. He looked as if he were trying to hold his breath. This conversation had played through a million different outcomes in my mind. Confusion permeated everything for me, where he is concerned, a thick dosage of confusion accompanied by hurt each time I look at him._

 _"What do you want?" his eyes finally met my own, but his face expressed nothing but sheer boredom._

 _I just wanted answers. I wanted to know why, whenever I seemed on the verge of regaining Peeta as my friend, I seemed to lose him in the same breath._

 _I wanted to understand why he hated me so much._

 _Instead of any of these things, I replied; "I want to talk about the accident."_

 _"We've already talked about it." His jaw quirked, as if resisting a smirk._

 _"No, I've talked. You've lied."_

 _"What do you want to know?"_

 _"The truth."_

 _"Fine." Peeta leaned a bit closer, something intimate in his proximity, making me blush. His voice, when again he spoke, was soft as "Truth is, Prim hit her head and is confused. Oh, and you're welcome for carrying her out."_

 _"There's nothing wrong with her head!" I scowl. "You owe me an explanation about what happened."_

 _"What do you_ ** _think_** _happened, Kat?"_

 _"I think you ran faster than is supposed to be possible to the front of the bus before anyone could see you. I think you stopped the bus, like Prim said. I think you smashed in the front window, ripped back the seat that had Prim trapped, and- just look at you, you don't even have a scratch."_

 _I swallow the ludicrous implications along with my frustration. Prim being told she's crazy, the doctors citing her head wound- which wasn't even a concussion, as a source of explanation, had me on edge more than anything. They said there wasn't anything wrong with my sister, but that she was wrong about the situation all the same. That she was imagining things. Not lying, necessarily, but traumatized to the point of not knowing what she saw. And maybe she was wrong, maybe she misunderstood. Maybe her mind played tricks on her._

 _Only, I know what I saw. I saw Peeta disappear from my side, and reappear, coming from the opposite end of the bus, seeming to have come through the front to back. The insanity of what this all suggested, of what Prim had said, washed over me._

 _"So you really do think I stopped a bus with my bare hands?" he tone is incredulous. "Tell Prim to start saying she imagined it, before she makes a fool of herself."_

 _"No."_

 _"Tell her to recant what she's said, that she made a mistake. That she misunderstood."_

 _"_ ** _No_** _," I repeated, more forcefully this time. "I'm not telling my sister to lie!"_

 _"It wouldn't be lying, Kat, it's the truth."_

 _I stand my ground._

 _"Peeta, you're- you just don't make any sense. If you won't own to it-"_

 _"Then what?" Peeta's brow furrowed, whether from concern or confusion is anybody's guess._

 _My throat feels tight, and I gulp heavily._

 _"Then I'll have to figure it out for myself."_

 _"Kat." Any confusion left him, his eyes narrowing as face contorted in anger. "Tell Prim to say she made a mistake."_

 _I glared back at him, stony silence wearing between us. The late bell rang out, making me flinch._

 _"Tell her to take back her story, tell her you saw me climb in the back, tell her what she saw never happened."_

 _"And then what?"_

 _"Then I'll explain this to you."_

 _"When?"_

But Peeta had already turned his back and walked into class. He scurried out of Biology before I could grab him again, and I had watched his car zooming away as I left the school building at the end of the day. As I sat in the library the next morning, waiting for Finnick and my tutoring session, the questions in my mind had extended beyond what I could handle. I contained it, I thought, well enough. But Finnick seemed to realize what was distracting me.

Finnick told me Peeta had been using steroids. And then, he'd also flexed his arm muscles, informing me that his pecs had names. I was so embarrassed I practically tripped over myself, fleeing the room.

Peeta, despite his promise, had continued to avoid me like a plague, while Prim insisted to me that what she saw was real.

 _"And did you hear this story, about a seventeen-year-old boy out of Clallam County's own town of Forks, Washington?"_

The words draw my attention to the benign black box, numbers flashing in bright red.

 _"Yes, Peeta Mellark! Wrestling champion at Forks High School. There's a lot of talk about his heroic rescue of a twelve-year-old middle school student from that horrible bus crash just outside of the junior high."_

They're prattling on, discussing Peeta's bravery, and how fortunate it is that he was at the scene. I quickly turn the radio off. I pass by Prim's room, and crack the door opened just an inch to check on her. She's sleeping, chest rising and falling peacefully, Buttercup glaring suspiciously as he stands post at the foot of Prim's bed. I wonder if the cat knows Haymitch has made an appointment for Prim with a local therapist, against my objections. She has one cracked rib, and the laceration on her head is, according to the doctors, 'minor,' compared to what could have happened. She's lucky, they say. So lucky that Peeta saved her. So lucky that Peeta got from the back to the front of the bus. So damn lucky that the seats apparently fell in just the right way that he could extract her with ease. Prim says she's lucky that Peeta was strong enough to stop the bus.

No other witnesses are corroborating her version of events, Peeta included. My sister had become upset a few days ago about this detail.

Haymitch wants her to discuss her trauma. I find it laughable, but maybe some form of therapy does help. Haymitch hasn't had a drink in weeks, and still attends most AA meetings on Friday nights.

Thunder rumbles as I'm finishing my morning routine, fingers twisting my wet hair into my regular side-braid. I'm grateful that Haymitch doesn't pester me when I just take a granola bar, and leave the house well before normal.

I don't want to keep my tutor waiting.

* * *

"Kitty-Kit," the voice purrs as I approach my tutor in the library.

"Finnick," I offer, curtly. The first few times this new nickname emerged, I tried to stop it. As with most things with Finnick, he seems to do as he pleases. Though, I'm grateful he's worn shirts and shorts and shoes ever since that first session. He still looks like he's only just jumped out of the pool- and, I don't doubt that he has. I avoid his gaze as I set myself up across the table from him. I pull out my textbook, opening it up to the current chapter and sliding the book across at the bronze-haired boy. "We're up to-"

"Woah, woah, now, girl on fire, slow down." Finnick gives me a crooked grin, to which I simply glare. He shrugs it off, glancing quickly over the chapter. As he tilts his head down to read something, a few droplets drip from his hair onto the page. I try not to cringe, but he reeks of chlorine, and I can't help but wonder how soaked he is going to make my book.

"We've been talking about-"

"Meiosis." Finnick waves a hand dismissively. "What's the definition again?"

"Uh… they produce daughter cells."

Finnick's eyes lock onto mine, and he raises a brow at me. "And?"

"And… something with gametes, ."

"What kind?"

I cringe, not able to think.

He sits up, playing with a pen in one hand. "Starts with the letter H."

I grind my teeth, the clue not doing anything for me.

"Two syllables…"

"Hap-something."

"Hap- what?" Finnick raises a brow.

"Haploid gametes. Meiosis produces haploid gametes."

"Which means what?"

"They're happy and paranoid at the same time," I snark in response.

Finnick gives me a knowing frown, chin tipped slightly downwards. I've noticed this look before, so at odds with his alternate persona; it's a look that says, _'You're smarter than that.'_ If anything, it makes me more uncomfortable than his naturally, obnoxiously flirtatious nature. I shift, eyes doing to the page. He knows better than to leave the page opened to where his questions are coming from- in fact, I'm starting to wonder if he doesn't have this all memorized.

"Meiosis produces haploid gametes, which have one set of chromosomes."

"And when a haploid sperm fuses with a haploid egg, what forms?"

I can feel my cheeks burning, and can't even look at Finnick. "A zygote."

"Good."

I clear my throat, spending the next twenty minutes alternating between wanting to scream, wanting to disappear, and wanting to smack Finnick in the face. By the time the first-period bell chimes out, I'm quick to pack my things back together, ready to flee.

"Oh, Kat?" Finnick calls. I turn to face him, and he's giving me that idiotic smirk, that likely is what has caused half the school to jump in his pants.

"What?"

"Peeta won't be in today."

My eyes narrow. "So what?"

Finnick shrugs, shouldering his backpack and heading past me. "Just letting you know."

"Thanks."

* * *

The messages on the answering machine should not surprise me. The rain is now coming to a thinning-out, a note stuck on the refrigerator telling me (as if the absence of the Nissan That my mother has spent three separate messages sobbing about how much she loves Primmy, and _should I come there to visit?!_ is hardly groundbreaking information.

I should, and yet, the messages still get under my skin. I hesitate between deleting the messages straight-out, letting Haymitch handle it, or leaving the messages for Prim to hear.

Prim will probably be too upset, if I let her listen to our mother crying. But Haymitch is the one who called and left mom that message, so he can handle the fallout, right?

Right.

My backpack thumps against the floor. The heavy weight leaving aching shoulders makes me feel absurdly relieved. I roll my shoulders back, about to collapse on my bed when a gruff knocking sounds at the front door. I can't think of who would be looking to 'visit' at a time like this, unless it's Mrs. Carter looking to borrow more eggs. I make my way carefully down the stairs, try peaking out the curtain in the living room before opening the door, but can't quite get a visual on who is out there. The knocking sounds again, and I cringe, before opening the door a crack.

The rain is more of a light mist now, but the tall figure at my doorway has a black hood pulled up over his head, beads of water lazing about the top of the hood. Chocolate brown eyes meet mine, a grave expression on Gale Hawthorne's face. He holds out a get-well card, and a wrapped present.

"It's for Prim," he explains.

"She's not home."

"Oh."

I take the presents, as he practically shoves them towards me.

Gale doesn't move, instead stands, staring at me. The downpour has slowed to a whimper, and I shift my weight, wondering if he's going to yell or expect me to do so, instead.

"Kat," he begins, his voice surprisingly soft. There's a wariness in his eyes. "We need to talk."

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 ** _thank you for waiting for so long, I considered adding more to this but, well... you'll have to bear with me until next time. thank you to lovethybooty for pre-reading for me and giving me a bit of feedback! xoxo_**


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